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A Haunt or the Brown Thrasher 



A BOOK ON BIRDS 



BY 

AUGUSTUS WIGHT BOMBERGER, M.A. 



3/llnatratrb wttii JJIfntnurapiiQ from llife 

By WILLIAM L. BAILY 



PHILADELPHIA 

THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY 

MCMXII 



Copyright, 1912, by 
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. 



©CI.A303945 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Introduction 9 

I. Suggestions 15 

II. Other Hints for the Be- 
ginner 25 

III. Bird Notes and Their Value 34 

IV. In the Wake of the Brown 

Thrasher 56 

V. Rainy Weather and Wrens 72 
VI. The Wood Warblers ... 83 
VII. Tanglewood Lane and Skip- 
pack Creek 93 

VIII. Two Vireos and Some Friends 110 

IX. At the End of June ... 119 

X. Bird Songs After Dark . . 129 

XL Midsummer Memoranda . . 136 

XII. Birds on the Wing 163 

XIII. Dick 175 

XIV. In Winter 181 

XV. Field Key 195 

[iii] 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 



A Haunt of the Brown Thrasher 

Frontispiece ^ 
Loath to Leave Her Nestlings 

A Bluebird Watching Both Them and 

Their Visitor 21^ 

Hungry and Cynical 

Sparrow Hawk 32 ^ 

Some First Fruits of Spring 

Young Crows 37 " 

Robin's Nest in a Rail Fence . . 39 y 
"Old Sam PeabodyV Home 

Nest of the White-throated Sparrow .46^ 
The Catbird When He's Surly . 48^ 
Oh, So Sleepy! 

Young Phcebes 53 v 

Proving His Equilibrium 

Kingfisher Twenty-three Days Old . 55 
Breast to Breast with Mother Earth 

Nighthawk on Eggs 62^ 

[v] 



Illustrations 

PAGE 

The Eternal Vigilance of the Robin 64 ^ 
At His Ever Open Door 

The Flicker 85^ 

The Last Meal at Home 

Chestnut-sided Warbler and Young . 96 ^ 
A Hermit Thrush's Hermitage . . . 101^ 
Which Shall be First? 

Catbird and Young 103 ^ 

Resentful of Intrusion 

Wood Thrush at Nest 105^ 

A Swamp-Dweller's Home 

Nest of the Red-winged Blackbird . 108 * 
Half Crowded Out 
Field Sparrow's Nest Cumbered with 

Cowbird'sEgg HO 1 '' 

A Bright Glance From the Leaves 

Red-eyed Vireo W2/ 

The Sweet Seclusion of the Oven- 
bird's Nest \Yl y 

Three Who Would be Better Off in 
Bed 
Red-eyed Vireos 119 7 

fvi] 



Illustrations 

PAGE 

Homesick on a Cool Morning 

Red-eyed Vireos 126 **" 

A Kingbird on Guard 128^ 

The Littlest Mother of Them All 

Ruby-throated Hummingbird . . . 133 r 
Only Half Awake 

The Vesper Sparrow at Home . . 134T 
Where Snowbirds Spend the Summer 

Nest of the Slate-colored Junco . . . 143^ 

The Chipping Sparrow 144/ 

Female Kentucky Warbler . . . 165^ 
Nest of the Nashville Warbler . 176' 
The Daintiest Bird Building Any- 
where 

Nest of the Wood Pewee 181^ 

Surrounded by Laurel on the Edge 
of a Wood 

Nest of the Towhee 192^ 

Swamp Sparrow's Nest 199^ 

Supervising a Sand Bath 

Wilson's Tern and Young 206 ' 



[vii] 



INTRODUCTION 

THE acquisition of a definite knowledge 
of birds through personal search and 
study in the open air has no doubt 
appeared in the minds of some too trivial 
a matter for serious attention or any large 
expenditure of time and energy. 

And yet others have found it more 
important than it seems; and this — not 
only because of what it contains in itself, 

but also bv reason of the manv other 

* «/ 

things of value immediately associated with 
it. 

For, to come into close touch with the 
very life of birds in field and forest, beside 
the myriad delights it gradually unfolds 
to the eye and ear and understanding 
out of one bright kingdom of earth, means 
also to feel the quickening thrill of all 
nature under heaven's great dome; so 

[9] 



A Book on Birds 



intimately is every other realm related to 
this, and so sensitive and subtle are the 
ties by which we ourselves have been 
joined to all created things from the begin- 
ning. 

A genuine love of nature in its broad- 
est, deepest, highest development — a love 
which reaches with wide and eager vision 
and extended hands toward the stars above, 
and out unto the uttermost bounds of 
land and sea, wakening, vivifying, sharpen- 
ing every sense, and enkindling in the 
heart a warmth of interest so genial and 
pervasive as to make one under its influence 
as a soul aroused to its real self from a 
vague, dull dream of being — a love of nature 
like this must inevitably start from some 
first point of individual contact. And 
the realm of birds is quite sufficient to 
meet the requirement. 

Indeed, we may go farther and say 
that no other realm offers it more attrac- 
tively than this, with its enchanting allure- 
ments of music, color, motion, tenderness, 
and the magic of an ideal, care-free existence. 

[10] 



Introduction 



Moreover, there is perhaps less danger 
of becoming a mere one-sided specialist 
along this line in the natural world around 
us than any other. It is hard to be narrow 
and contracted of spirit amidst the sweet 
and multitudinous voices of the winged 
creatures of the air, all of them filled to 
overflowing with much of the same pure 
joy that presents itself appealingly to us 
in the sunlit breezes of a May morning 
or October afternoon, the fragrant blossoms 
of an orchard, the varied flowers of verdant 
meadow and mossy wood, the melody of 
whispering trees and running brooks, the 
mighty outlook of hill and mountain, and 
the boundless sweep of the ocean. And 
many to whom, perchance, this joy has 
been as nothing will be led unconsciously 
by the gentle persuasion of it in birds 
into a high and liberal frame of mind, 
which, taking note of all things though 
pursuing but a single quest, will finally 
embrace all in a large and generous com- 
prehension and capacity. 

The reader who has come only this 

[Hi 



A Book on Birds 



far upon the threshold of my book will 
of course perceive its purpose at once. 

It is designed to arouse and inspire, 
rather than instruct; to uplift and gladden 
the heart by moving it to enter a pleasant 
field of profitable diversion, rather than 
to impart scientific knowledge. And the 
author ventures to write while still but a 
beginner himself because he has thought 
he will thus keep, more truly shoulder to 
shoulder with beginners, and thereby help 
them the more. 

The first fresh enthusiasm of a new 
outlook upon things of this kind must 
be reckoned as no small factor in the 
attainment of the object he has in mind. 
And therefore — while not neglecting to 
keep close to the line of authenticity and 
fact in presenting his experiences, so that 
those who may desire to follow may do so 
smoothly, nor be misled; and, indeed, 
even trying always, for this very reason, 
to give an especially exact though con- 
cise description of each bird and circum- 
stance as he has seen it — he has at the 

[12] 



Introduction 



same time counted of equal moment a 
genuine reproduction in these pages of 
the very atmosphere of healthful life amidst 
which everything here set down was 
revealed to him. For he knows that this 
alone can make the quest of birds for 
others just what he has found it — not a 
mechanical occupation at all, but a sen- 
tient delight and an absolute blessing. 

And, finally, relying upon these con- 
siderations, he hopes also that the reader 
may not only bear with him for weaving 
in threads of verse here and there, but, 
lending a willing ear, may even be able 
to detect some of the birds merely pic- 
tured in the prose actually singing — if 
but faintly — in the rhymes that appear; 
so that the whole aspect of what this 
volume lifts up to be laid hold of may 
not be that of a task tending to repel, 
through its magnitude and detail, any who 
draw nigh, but rather of labor made play 
by reason of its kindly compensations 
and entire simplicity. 

No reference has been made to Mr. Baily's 
[13] 



A Book on Birds 



work because the author believes that this 
will at once commend itself without a word. 
Nevertheless he is not content to close these 
introductory paragraphs until he has added 
one last line of cordial acknowledgment of 
that gentleman's valued co-operation, not 
only in the matter of pictures, but also at 
many other essential points beyond those 
made plain by his quick and clever camera. 



[14] 



Chapter I 

SUGGESTIONS 

IT goes without saying anywhere, but 
especially here, after what has been 
set down in the preceding pages, 
that the only real way to get acquainted 
with birds is on the spot. Book knowledge 
of them alone is as much unlike the knowl- 
edge you obtain directly, in field and wood, 
by brook and hedge, as the ideas of baseball 
a girl gathers from reading of it differ from 
those of the boy who plays the game. 

Books on birds may be both interesting 
and instructive; and also indispensable as 
a help and a guide. But to find a bird for 
yourself, in the early morning or at sunset, 
and see for the first time the beauty of his 
plumage close at hand, and hear and learn 
his calls and his music, and be puzzled for 
a bit, and run over your mental memo- 
randa, referring to such colored plates as 

[15] 



A Book on Birds 



you have been wise enough to bring along 
— the while your feathered enigma skips 
from twig to twig and poses at every pos- 
sible angle; and then at last to place him 
surely, mark for mark, and follow his secret 
haunts to his very nest — this is vital and 
satisfying; and this only. 

Each acquaintance thus acquired will 
stir you with the joy of new discovery. 
He is yours — you will say. You have 
made him so by dint of personal search 
and observation. The book you have 
at home was merely a preliminary; the 
achievement is your own, and to you 
belongs the credit of it. 

This is the spirit that will ultimately make 
a bird-lover and a field-lover of any one. 
Lectures, essays, pictures — of themselves — 
never; except as they incite you to pick up 
your hat and field-glass and start right off 
for the great open book of nature itself. 
Here you will truly master your subject, if 
you are in earnest, and be fascinated by it; 
and your scant and vague and uncertain ideas 
will grow, and become definite and reliable. 

[16] 



Suggestions 



And do not be impatient in the matter, 
or go on your first quest in a hurry; nor 
in an automobile — except, perhaps, as your 
means of conveyance to the actual field 
of exploitation. Automobiles and birds 
are both delightful. And if you like both, 
well and good. That is your matter. 
The point is, do not try to indulge in both 
with equal interest at the same time. 
They will not mix. 

In a wooded country you can pass more 
birds during an hour in an average "ma- 
chine" without seeing a single one of them 
to know it thoroughly than you could 
find time to study in many months. 

Bird students who "mean business" 
and want to amount to something must 
walk. 

Moreover, they must not expect to gain 
more than just a little information each 
trip they take. A dozen new species, 
vividly seen and appreciated at their full 
woodland value, will be rich reward for 
a whole year's work; and quite enough 
also to satisfy any ordinary observer. 

[17] 



A Book on Birds 



The ideal season to study birds in this 
climate is of course the spring, when most 
of them sing to a greater extent, and make 
themselves in every way more conspicuous 
than when the hot summer months set in. 

This, however, is true of each locality 
only as to birds that nest within its limits. 

For in our latitude the migratory birds 
can be found in large numbers in the fall 
also, when they often linger with us for 
many days in flocks on their passage south- 
ward, if the prevailing weather be pro- 
pitious. 

And the ideal time for best results is 
that " witching " hour before breakfast 
when the "sun peeps over the hills;" at 
which moment it seems to be instinctive 
with every bird to lift his voice in melody, 
even though he keep complete silence 
(as many do) during the heat and burden 
of the day. If sunrise, however, is not 
attractive to you, sunset will do nearly 
as well — provided you do not count on 
seeing many after the sun has actually 
disappeared. 

[18] 



Suggestions 



These, by the way, are merely the best 
times to go. Any period of the day, 
from middle-March to the depths of sum- 
mer, is sure to produce some results — 
though it is surprising how few birds can 
be found after ten o'clock in the morning 
when the extremely warm weather has 
come. 

In that part of southern Pennsylvania 
where I reside there lies immediately north 
of my home a great stretch of open, roll- 
ing country — broken into long valleys 
garrisoned by splendid hills and traversed 
by three fine streams of water, the Schuyl- 
kill, the Perkiomen, and the Skippack — 
which offers as fair and prolific a field of 
observation in this study as anyone could 
desire. Of course there are in the same 
broad belt that takes in these streams, 
and for hundreds of miles to the east 
and west of it, other districts beyond 
number just as rich — and equally attrac- 
tive also to those in turn who count 
them their own. 

However, in this of mine, and it is at 

[19] 



A Book on Birds 



least representative, you will probably find 
after continued effort during several sea- 
sons, nearly ninety species nesting; while 
many more may be added to that total 
in the spring and autumn from birds 
of passage. And of these an average 
amateur, using good judgment, may get as 
many as forty or fifty in a half-dozen trips. 

But never strive for mere numbers. 
Rather take a single group at a time and 
learn it thoroughly — so that you acquire 
as quickly as possible an intimate, friendly 
relationship with it, as it were; including 
perhaps some awkward ability to whistle 
the family language, and other woodland 
accomplishments. 

And if, perchance, any reader should 
feel moved by this initial chapter, and 
have the impulse to " start out" at once, 
suppose he begin with the Sparrow family. 

Not one in a score, even among those 
of us who love the open air, knows this 
charming company of songsters as he 
should. Indeed, there have been cases 
where the experts — the real naturalists 

[20] 




Loath to Leave Her Nestlings 
A Bluebird Watching Them and Their Visitor 

(See page 19) 



Suggestions 



whom we all follow and admire — have 
fallen into mistakes over them. 

And yet they are not hard to get on 
speaking terms with, and prove delight- 
ful little bodies when once they become 
familiar to the eye and ear. 

There are twelve or more, all told, 
who honor us with their presence — though 
some of these are so retiring and exclu- 
sive (and, beside this, so rarely, if ever, 
make their domicile here) that it will take 
a long while, and you may lose patience at 
times, before you are acquainted with them. 

Those you ought to know, however, 
and may know easily, are the Chipping 
Sparrow (with his mahogany-brown cap 
and no melody in his note); the Song 
Sparrow (who often stays with us all 
winter and furnishes our first spring music) ; 
the Vesper Sparrow, or Grassfinch (with 
his white tail feathers which always show 
as he flies away from you); the Yellow- 
winged Sparrow (smallest of the group, 
whose voice is so like that of a grass- 
hopper he has taken his name too, and 

[21] 



A Book on Birds 



who can light on a talt weed with him 
in the center of a field and not bend it 
much more than he does; and whose 
eggs — silver-white with a wreath of brown 
and gold and lilac spots, circling the larger 
end, are about the daintiest things in 
ornithology); the Field Sparrow (whose 
evening hymn — a series of exquisite minor- 
thirds beginning very slowly and running 
together at the end, like sparkling dew- 
drops on a blade of grass — is so plaintive 
and tender that once clearly heard it 
will never be forgotten); — these five — 
and then, less easily found, the Fox, the 
Tree, the White-throated, the Swamp, 
the Savannah sparrows, and several others 
— not to include our town bird, the 
English Sparrow, who cannot sing, has 
bad manners, and really doesn't belong 
in the group at all. 

Taking these to begin with, you will 
have plenty to do for many a day. Try 
it and see — not neglecting the others 
altogether (for you cannot do that), but 
making these the chief subjects of study. 

[22] 



Suggestions 



They will pay you well for your work; 
and on every trip you will get more than 
you bargained for — both from them and 
their environment. 

For this does happen with those who 
go forth into God's great out-of-doors, 
bearing eager hearts and humble minds. 

They learn that a love of birds leads 
to a love of all nature, and a love of all 
nature to the brightest, best and happiest 
life under heaven. 



[23] 



A Book on Birds 



The Heart of Winter 

Hail, Springs of life within the silent rock! 
I know the secret of your hiding-place, 
I hear the hidden music of your flowing, 
I see the vernal sunbeams brightly glowing 
Above the limpid depths of your embrace. 
And though no bolt of heaven nor thunder-shock 

Hath aught of power to pierce your mighty prison, 
Yet this, this too, I know, that by and by 
Some messenger of song that God hath sent 
Will seek these solid walls, and find their portal, 
And gently call you forth, in faith immortal, — 
Will gently call till every bar is rent, 
And Earth awakens with the joyful cry, 

"Behold, behold — the Springs of life are risen!" 



[24 



Chapter II 

OTHER HINTS FOR THE BEGINNER 

TO show from actual experience how 
close and accessible to a bustling 
town is the bird life we would know, 
even upon an entirely un-springlike day, 
let us proceed by a street in its outskirts 
this breezy afternoon early in April, start- 
ing about five o'clock, and walk toward 
the west until we reach the country, there 
picking a road to the right at a big, rest- 
ful-looking house that stands amidst some 
tall pines, and following it past an old 
brick-works to the first cross-fence beyond, 
as we go. 

Here, the rails being down invitingly, 
let us take to the fields. 

Now, on such a quest as ours, there 
are two good reasons for doing this just 
at this cross-fence, in addition to the 
alluring attitude of the rails. 

[25] 



A Book on Birds 



First, the fence is hedged upon either 
side — at some points to the depth of ten 
feet — with a thick growth of sassafras, 
elder, wild-cherry, hickory, blackberry 
brambles, and " other things too numer- 
ous to mention ;" and if there is one place 
which certain birds love more than any other, 
and particularly in cool, windy weather, it 
is a cross-fence thus reinforced. 

And, second, the fence is the boundary 
line of a broad meadow and leads gently 
down, after a hundred yards or so, to a 
little stream of running water, fringed 
with more elder and " other things/ ' and 
just of the sort to which these same birds 
delight to come at evening-time to drink. 
So we keep to the cross-fence. 

And, sure enough, here are some, to 
start with at least — even if they do happen 
to be merely Snowbirds that have been 
around all winter. They are recognizable 
most easily by the light pinkish-yellow 
of their broad beaks — which looks con- 
spicuous against the dark slate color of 
head and back and wings. 

[26] 



Other Hints for the Beginner 

They engage us quite a little time — 
for they will be taking their annual trip 
northward by and by, and we and they 
may not meet again for a while. 

However, the minutes are precious this 
afternoon, and we must proceed. 

And now, because the rivulet happens 
to spread a little farther on, where the 
fence meets it, to somewhat of a morass, 
too wide to cross, we are forced into a 
short detour out through the open, until 
we sight a rough foot-bridge of old rails, 
laid from bank to bank, and head for it. 

But just here are other friends to make 
us forget those left behind. And a fine pair 
at that, whom, perhaps, you do not know; 
to wit, two plump Killdeers — slaking their 
thirst amidst the tall brown winter grass. 

They seem not to notice our approach 
until we are quite near, and then they 
start to run away from us, going rapidly, 
and keeping as close to the ground as 
chipmunks, and all the while looking back 
shrewdly — this being a characteristic per- 
formance of the Vesper Sparrow also. 

[27] 



A Book on Birds 



We follow — walking fast but very 
stealthily — and they do not break into 
flight until they reach an intercepting 
lane, across which they wing their way, 
uttering the quick, agitated cry from which 
they take their name — "Killdeer, killdeer, 
killdeer!" 

They fly with an eccentric, irregular 
motion, their dark pinions (with a crook 
in them) showing snowy white underneath 
as they go. 

In thus proclaiming their name they 
are like a number of other birds that are 
quite easy to identify simply because they 
announce themselves in this way to all 
strangers who are on the alert to hear. 
Indeed, almost immediately, we come upon 
another feathered friend (also not as well 
known with us as he might be) who does 
the same thing — the Towhee bird. 

This fellow reveals himself at the fence 
(to which we have now returned) on the 
other side of the meadow-brook. He is 
probably first of the season, and his voice 
is not strong as yet. But try to articulate 

[28] 



Other Hints for the Beginner 

the word "Towhee" in a whistle, and 
you have it exactly. 

We find him handsome in appearance, 
when we finally get a good glimpse. He 
is a little smaller than the Robin; with 
black head, throat, back, tail and wings; 
the tail and wings, however, greatly 
enriched by glistening white feathers. 
His shoulders and sides are brick-red, 
while his breast is of pearl, and his eyes 
of a brilliant ruby. He was in this hedge 
last summer and has come to almost 
exactly the same spot for another season. 

For this, also, is a trait many birds 
have that will help you in finding and get- 
ting acquainted with them. 

A Wood Warbler not much bigger than 
your thumb will fly many miles from the 
South during a night and arrive in the 
early morning at the very haunt — on the 
very limb perhaps — he picked for himself 
the year before, and know it just as well 
as the tired boy who has been out all 
day knows his own home after dark. 

With this trait to count on, every wise 

[29] 



A Book on Birds 



bird-lover will soon have a locality for 
many a species, and govern himself accord- 
ingly in his expeditions. 

After getting the Towhee to repeat him- 
self a half dozen times by imitating his call, 
we walk on to a point where another fence, 
even more deeply hedged about, meets the 
first at right angles on our left. Jumping 
over, we explore this too, finding Song 
Sparrows, Chipping Sparrows and Field 
Sparrows, with a Sparrow-hawk sailing 
around overhead, with a sharp eye on them, 
no doubt, for other food is scarce as yet; 
and then we cross a broad field, still going 
westward, to a thick patch of second- 
growth timber about fifteen feet high 
(with a few old oaks still standing amongst 
it) which lies on the other side. 

We pass a score of Meadow Larks and 
Robins on the way, and in the timber 
find Blackbirds and Crows galore. The 
young trees stand close together, and 
the brown, leafy mold under foot is 
brightly carpeted with the rue anemone, 
blood-root and spring beauty, all in 

[30] 



Other Hints for the Beginner 

bloom, with the tender green leaves of 
the May apple peeping through every- 
where. The spring beauties have already 
gone to sleep in the woody twilight, although 
it is only half after five by this time; but 
the others, including a stray hepatica 
here and there, are still almost as wide 
awake as ever. After gathering up a 
few of the widest-awake ones, we leave 
the trees and start homeward by the same 
route we came. 

Two Golden-winged Flickers greet us 
as we emerge — they also, by the way, 
crying out their names; and we hear 
a Bluebird's soft elusive note and sight 
him sitting atop a fence post. 

On our way across the meadow again an 
enthusiastic Red-winged Blackbird circles 
overhead and sings his flute-like "og-ill-ee" 
refrain for our especial benefit; and near the 
road, on an old rail, we find the first Wren 
we have seen this season. 

By quarter after six we are back again 
at our starting point, having checked 
fifteen different species on our bird list in 

[31] 



A Book on Birds 



a walk of less than a mile and a half, and 
in but little more than an hour's time. 

And this, quite ahead of the season 
also; the walk we have described having 
been taken in April, as stated, with results 
precisely as here set down. 

Let anyone cover the same course at 
the same hour one month later and he 
will meet from two to three times as many 
varieties among the feathered songsters 
he seeks, provided, of course, he knows 
how to go about it. 

For then the Thrush family, and Swal- 
lows, and Orioles, and Wood Warblers, 
and Vireos, and Flycatchers, and Pewees, 
and many others will have arrived once 
more, to make field and hedge and blue 
sky, and the thick growth of new timber — 
by that time a mass of fragrant foliage — 
just as glad as ever before, in vernal days 
gone by. 



[32] 




Hungry and Cynical 
Sparrow Hawk 



(See 'page 22) 



In Joyous Faith 



In Joyous Faith 

In joyous faith, from mountain top and vale, 

Hark, hark, they come — the myriad birds of 
spring! 
Swift as an arrow, at the Master's call 

They pierce the frozen air with steady wing, 
And laugh to shame the winter winds that rail 

Against the precious promises they bring. 
They wake the lonesome wood with sound of song; 

They stir the drowsy violets with mirth, 
And send a thrill of gladness into all 

The dark and mournful silences of earth; 
Until at last, a sweet, exultant throng, 

They swell the triumph of perennial birth. 

Oh, wondrous miracle of victory! 

In joyous faith they win — and so may we. 



[33] 



Chapter III 

BIRD NOTES AND THEIR VALUE 

TWO Robins, engaged in nest-build- 
ing directly across the way from 
my home, have started me to think- 
ing about bird notes this morning. 

The leaves everywhere have but just 
emerged and are still little more than a 
delicate mist of green over the trees. 
Yet a spell of exceptionally warm weather, 
following close upon a snow-storm and 
lasting a fortnight, seems to have developed 
certain native proclivities in these two 
with such unusual rapidity that they have 
gotten ahead of the foliage; and, unable 
to wait for its privacy and shelter, have 
begun work on their home in the topmost 
fork of the unadorned branches of a maple, 
where every detail of their proceedings 
is quite open to the public gaze. 

However, as I have indicated, it is 

[34] 



Bird Notes and their Value 



not so much what they do that engrosses 
my attention just now, as the wonderful 
amount of melodious noise with which 
they enliven their labors. 

Some of it, without any doubt, is simply 
music. But much more appears to have 
definite meaning and purpose beyond this. 

As I listen I count seven distinct strains 
or sets of notes which they use repeatedly; 
and these, furthermore, are marked by 
many minor inflections and variations, 
all plainly forming the medium through 
which they communicate the one with the 
other. It must be admitted, of course, 
that it is all a very crude sort of language; 
nevertheless it seems entirely sufficient to 
enable them to get along quite smoothly, 
delightfully, and with a perfect understand- 
ing of what each is to do, as they put 
together their rough, though strongly con- 
structed habitation of mud and hay. 

Moreover, I know well, from a long 
acquaintance with the species, that the 
warbling conversation of this pair con- 
stitutes only part of the general fund of 

[35] 



A Book on Birds 



robin talk and robin music. Other 
Robins (and even these, no doubt) have 
many other notes and strains for other 
experiences. 

For example, in an entirely different 
case of nest-building that came under 
my observation the male bird, unless my 
eyes deceived me, did very little, if any 
of the actual labor, confining himself 
instead to a sort of bustling superintend- 
ence of things; and the notes here seemed 
to be altogether in keeping with just what 
might be looked for under such conditions. 

And again; I have felt frequently that 
there is no bird-cry in all the world which 
is more truly intelligible than that of a 
Robin bemoaning the loss of its young- 
ling or its mate. Often, as it drops to a 
cadence almost inaudible, it is so acutely 
appealing that it has appeared to me 
the perfect intonation of hopeless grief. 

Several years ago a friend of mine was 
brought by this fact into an experience 
having almost enough in it to move one 
to tears of sympathy. Upon a stone 

[36] 





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Bird Notes and their Value 



step of the approach to a residence near 
my home he came across one of these 
birds standing beside its partner, lying 
dead. Drawn close to it by the heart- 
broken woe of its voice, he discovered to 
his surprise that it was so utterly engrossed 
with its sense of bereavement that he was 
able to bend down and stroke its feathers 
(even while the bird itself stroked with 
its beak those of the inanimate form it 
loved) without any apparent sign of con- 
sciousness in the bereft one of what my 
friend was doing. 

It is not to be wondered at that a Robin's 
notes of mourning so reach the soul some- 
times, when upon occasion they can spring 
from a grief as absolute as was exhibited 
here. 

But these random reflections are, of 
course, aside from the main purpose of 
this chapter. 

Bird music has other — practical — values 
for the ornithologist, beyond whatever 
expression of joy or sorrow, or anything 
else of this nature informing to the human 

[37] 



A Book on Birds 



mind, it may contain. And (the indus- 
trious pair of Red-breasts opposite having 
disappeared for a bit) let us consider some 
of these, during their absence, in a more 
general way. 

It will appear at once that all our quest- 
ing, considered merely for its purpose of 
adding to our acquaintance with birds, 
will be simplified and become easier as 
we get clearly familiar with every possible 
song and call as we proceed. 

In many cases, of course, reliable 
knowledge of this kind is difficult to acquire 
and will come only after extended experi- 
ence. Yet in just as many more it may be 
gained upon the very threshold of things; 
and long before you have reached that 
expert stage where you can invariably 
distinguish (let us say) the music of the 
Song Sparrow from that of the Grass- 
finch, you will have found, if patient, 
that you have picked up a great deal of 
other skill that is well worth while; birds, 
which else would confuse you and escape 
identification, now fixing themselves surely, 

[38] 




W GO 



4, 



Bird Notes and their Value 



ever and anon, the moment they give 
voice. 

This is likely to prove a source of 
increased satisfaction upon nearly every 
new trip you take; and especially if your 
progress be interfered with at places by 
dense foliage, or the trip be continued, 
perchance, into the dusk of evening — 
conditions under which even good eyes 
and field-glasses are of little account. 

In addition to my own limited acquire- 
ments along this line I have chosen a 
method followed from time immemorial 
by wiser ones than I, and learned that it 
helps greatly to associate many songs 
the moment your ear has them alertly, 
with names and words which these others 
have found in them, or even names 
and words of your own. The whistling 
Bob White (Quail), the Teacher-bird 
(Golden-crowned Thrush), the Peabody- 
bird (White-throated Sparrow), the Phoebe 
(Bridge Pewee), the Towhee (Ground-robin), 
the Bobolink, and the Killdeer are most 
familiar among the birds that actually 

[391 



A Book on Birds 



fling their identity at you, more or less 
melodiously, every time they open their 
mouths to sing. And if you fail to get 
acquainted with these very early in your 
career, it will not be their fault at all. 

Then there are many others to whom 
poets, and prose writers also, though they 
have not in fact given names, have attached 
delightful words and phrases that will 
cling to them always and will assist you 
just as much in your questing. 

The Maryland Yellow-throat, for in- 
stance, first discovered himself to me only 
when I realized, with sudden pleasure, that 
he was warbling, " Witchery, witchery, 
witchery, witchery !" over and over again. 

Moreover, he indeed was one of those 
with whom I made assurance doubly sure, 
and satisfactory, by permitting my own 
personal fancy and power of invention 
to participate in the experience — the bird 
seeming, after a while on this well-remem- 
bered occasion, to say, " Jessica, Jessica, 
Jessica, Jessica!" to a certain member 
of our party quite as plainly as the other 

[40] 



Bird Notes and their Value 



word just quoted by which he is more 
generally known. 

This appreciation of the value of bird 
notes in your search and study may natu- 
rally be followed into many other details. 

To illustrate: one can get into the habit 
of judging the variations in key and 
rhythmic time of this bird song and that, 
and know them instantly by points of 
similarity and contrast. As an example 
here — the one-two-three "Bob White" call 
of the Quail, above mentioned, and so 
familiar to all, is pitched generally in 
the same tone as the notes of the Crested 
Flycatcher, a bird not so well known to 
many, but whom you will be quick to 
recognize when this is remembered, because 
his strain is altogether different in other 
particulars. 

And again, many notes and strains will 
become easy to differentiate if you keep 
your ear and heart open to whatever 
human emotions and special traits of char- 
acter they seem to express and convey. 
I have already discussed the Robin's notes. 

[41] 



A Book on Birds 



To me his only accomplishment worthy 
to be called a song — the brief, warbling 
canticle he repeats endlessly morning and 
evening — is simply brave, trustful joy, 
in its most primitive outpouring; and 
the Wild Dove's strain — is resignation to 
sorrow; and the Blue Jay's strident cry 
— hate and cynicism; and the Kingfisher's 
"clack-e-ty-clack" — reckless, superficial jol- 
lity; and the Meadow Lark's clear call — 
serene contentment, with the Bluebird's 
faint, ethereal voice as its lovely echo. 

As for others — when my approach drives 
the Catbird from his nest the noise he 
emits is pure surliness to my ear; when 
he is singing all alone, unaware of my pres- 
ence, it is pure bliss. I know and love the 
Wood Thrush especially (above other noble 
traits) for the religious devotion of his 
evening hymn; and the Hermit, just a little 
more for an even deeper reverence. The 
mellow richness of the Scarlet Tanager's 
scant melody appeals to my mind as the 
warmest passion of the woods; and so on — 
and on, to the end of the long, sweet list. 

[42] 



Bird Notes and their Value 



Then, to turn to a different class of 
characteristics, I find, say, that some bird 
(like the Indigo Bunting) sings in a hurry 
practically the same strain that another 
(like the bright American Goldfinch) takes 
far more leisurely; and in such cases 
comparison helps me in telling which is 
which. Or, the Bobolink is a glad, effusive 
fellow; and the merry House Wren, with 
his spluttering crescendo, nothing more 
than a dear little stammerer. 

And last — and shall I say best of all? — 
the Field Sparrow is naught less to me in 
his music than a quiet stringer of pearls — 
liquid pearls of peace, arising in his breast 
with no effort and issuing one by one 
from beginning to end without a ripple. 
I have heard him keep at it at intervals 
of a minute or so from the same spot for 
nearly a half-hour — the while I approached 
within thirty feet of him from every side 
and watched through my glass at every 
angle; and all the time he appeared 
utterly undisturbed by my presence. The 
notes, as to time and rhythm, are not 

[43] 



r 



A Book on Birds 



«• 



unlike those of the Chipping Sparrow; 
but the latter lack entirely that flawless 
music which makes the others so beau- 
tiful. 

I am free to admit that impressions 
received by my readers in these and other 
cases may differ, more or less, from my 
own, with each individual; but, whatever 
they may be, if you retain them as they 
are made, they cannot fail to help you 
much in securing sure data and verifying 
it pleasantly, over and over again. 

But, let this suffice by way of mere 
disquisition — at least so far as the present 
chapter is concerned. 

A week has passed; the warm weather 
has continued; the two Robins have about 
finished their nest; and we are now away 
out in the open, in an effort to prove what 
we have been saying by finding the White- 
throated Sparrow from the sound of his 
voice — a voice that is distinctive because 
at this time of the year it is probably the 
littlest and squeakiest under heaven. 

That first bright patch of gold we are 

[44] 



Bird Notes and their Value 



coming to in the dry marsh beyond these 
sparse blackberry brambles, with their 
but half-grown leaves, is the yellow field- 
mustard; and the other, larger one, fifty 
paces farther on, of a deeper, richer hue, 
is the meadow-parsnip. 

As we pass them, going toward the 
woods, we notice that the mustard bloom 
is in racemes about the size of a long thim- 
ble and the parsnip in flat clusters, like 
elderberry blossoms, but smaller. 

And directly we think what a pity it 
is that these bluets carpeting the ground 
hem us in so that we cannot go around 
them, but must trample them under foot! 

Yet what does it matter, after all? 
This is a bird-quest we are following just 
at present, and other things must not be 
permitted to divert us; for it is nearly 
sunset and if we would have other light 
than that of the stars in returning we 
must keep right at it and hurry. 

Which we do — and are rewarded even 
earlier than we thought to be; for we have 
hardly entered a narrow, fragrant path 

[45] 



A Book on Birds 



which leads through some hazel bushes and 
tall buttonwood trees before the sharp, 
thin chirp we have been expecting pierces 
the ear from either side of us; and in a 
few moments we succeed in locating several 
of the chirpers themselves, and can scru- 
tinize them adlibitum through our spy- 
glasses. 

And what beauties they are! — certainly 
the handsomest, and almost the largest 
of the Sparrow family. 

The cleanly contrasted stripes of alter- 
nate brown and white (we count three 
of the former and two of the latter) 
straight back from the beak across the 
crown of the head seem to me their most 
striking color mark, even though the broad 
patch of white at the throat is quite dis- 
tinctive. And, indeed, very conspicuous 
also, to my mind, are both the pure steel- 
gray underneath the flashing black eyes, 
and the squirrel-like shades of back and 
tail. 

But it was the voice of the White- 
throated Sparrow which brought us out 

[46] 



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Bird Notes and their Value 



this afternoon. And it is truly excep- 
tional. Some notes of it are in the very 
highest pitch to be found among birds 
or animals. Naturalists who have meas- 
ured them carefully, declare that they 
are actually four full tones above those 
of the Hyla (Pickering's frog), which other- 
wise hold the record — being uttered "in 
the note E of the fourth octave above the 
middle C." 

With us the bird is mostly migratory, 
nesting, as a rule, in the Pennsylvania 
mountains and the latitude of middle 
and northern New England; and while 
passing through our fields and forests 
he generally has but this one call which 
we are now hearing every half minute, 
or oftener. But now and then even with 
us, and daily when once he gets to his 
real home, he launches forth into real 
music, even though some of it is keyed 
up to a sort of White Mountain altitude; 
and because this full song of his has been 
thought to sound like 

"Old Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody!" 

[47] 



A Book on Birds 



he has been given the other name we have 
mentioned in a preceding paragraph — "the 
Peabody-bird." 

And now — although it be a digression 
from the special purpose of our trip and 
the theme of this chapter, let us yield 
nevertheless to the lure of the wild and 
cast about in a general way for other 
newcomers, while the twilight still permits. 

These two little fellows hopping about 
incessantly among the virgin leaves of the 
big gum tree, just beyond the bushes where 
the Sparrows first announced themselves, 
are Myrtle, or Yellow-rump Warblers. 
The Magnolia Warbler has a "yellow 
rump" too; but these have in addition 
a bright saffron spot on the crown of 
the head which always fixes their identity 
positively. Besides, the black along the 
eyes, and the exquisite gold on the upper 
part of a breast dappled and streaked 
with rich brown, are marks clearly their 
own. 

Turning from the Warblers we notice 
that some of the other smaller birds seem 

[48] 



73 




Bird Notes and their Value 



to take a special delight in the lavish white 
flower-clusters of the black haw that 
show through the thicket in three or four 
different directions. Even the Goldfinch 
("Wild-canary"), who appears to be 
everywhere, swoops down to them occa- 
sionally from the higher branches which 
spread above these dwarf blooming trees, 
and greatly enhances their beauty in his 
lovely spring garb of yellow and black, 
which has taken the place of the poor 
dun and gray vestments he wore during 
the winter. 

What it is he and the others are finding 
in the black haw that pleases them so is 
a secret I cannot guess. 

Listening suddenly with closer attention 
I hear from some distance back of me a 
call that is quite unmistakable, and most 
agreeable to the ear after so many months 
without it — that of the Phoebe, or Bridge 
Pewee, to whom we adverted some pages 
back. He is easy to recognize just now 
even if you do not catch his voice. For, 
in our climate, whenever this early in the 

[49] 



A Book on Birds 



season you come across a small feathered 
specimen who has a trick of swooping 
across from one tree to another with a 
quick, snapping sound midway, as he 
goes, you may be sure it is he. None 
but flycatchers behave this way, and the 
Phoebe is the only member of the family who 
reaches us so soon — the others, including 
the Kingbird, the Wood Pewee,the Crested, 
the Acadian and the Least flycatchers, 
not arriving until many weeks later. 

In a few moments I find at the far end 
of the woods the very one who is calling. 
He is dull of color, but lively of disposition; 
is just a little larger in size than the Song 
Sparrow, and places his nest (with its 
snow-white eggs) against some wall sup- 
porting a bridge or beneath the shelving 
rocks of an embankment. I knew one 
nest even under the eaves of a house, 
at Valley Forge; for the Phoebe is often 
very companionable indeed. 

In the immediate rural environs of my 
own town, he and the Crested have for 
several seasons availed themselves of the 

[50] 



Bird Notes and their Value 



peculiar advantages for home-building pre- 
sented by the tumbling walls and other 
ruins of a fire-swept tack-works, closely 
surrounded by trees and bushes. The 
Phoebe picks out the crannies of the dis- 
mantled engine-house as exactly to his 
fancy; while his cousin and friend uses 
the deep recesses of an open stove-pipe 
protruding from the half-demolished gable 
of another building, finding it no doubt 
just as rain-proof as his traditional hole 
in a tree — and quite as comfortable. 

Upon a hurried investigation, made one 
day while the latter was off on a visit, 
I discovered that he still indulges himself 
the queer and inexplicable eccentricity 
of weaving snake-skins into his nest which 
his forbears probably had, even as far 
back as the days of Noah. 

However, (eccentric, or not) this same 
Crested Flycatcher is assuredly a most 
beautiful and distinguished-looking bird — 
the coloring of his plumage being so exqui- 
sitely delicate and varied as to defy intelli- 
gible description. Its most striking hues are 

[51] 



A Book on Birds 



the dull olive of the back, the ashen blue 
of the throat, the bright sulphur yellow of 
the breast, and the rare, pinkish-brown 
beneath the long tail-feathers. Though a 
trifle less in size than the Robin, his fine 
crest makes him look larger, and gives 
him an aspect of great energy and ani- 
mation. 

But dinner waits! — and I am still out 
in the fields a mile away. Hurrying home- 
ward, I notice that the two Belted King- 
fishers, whose acquaintance I made years 
ago along the winding reaches of that 
Stony Creek I love, have reappeared in 
their old haunts a week or two earlier than 
usual. They are in splendid spirits and 
have evidently had a good winter — prob- 
ably spending it not very far south. You 
can always be sure of their presence before 
you see them from their cry, which is an 
exact reproduction of a watchman's rattle, 
heard at a distance. 

They start up hurriedly upon my 
approach and skurry along above the 
surface of the water in precipitate flight; 

[52] 




a o 

o ^ 



Bird Notes and their Value 



then, suddenly rising — their crest-feathers 
standing up stiff and straight and their 
long heads and necks and beaks stretched 
forward as far as possible as if in alarm — 
they mount above the tree-tops and make 
a wide detour out over the meadows, 
coming back to the stream again at a point 
at some safe distance away. 

The Kingfisher's colors are steel-blue 
and white. He is short of body and wide 
of wing — averaging about twelve inches 
one way and twenty-four the other; and 
the mark from which he takes the fore- 
part of his title is a narrow band of dark 
gray across the upper portion of his broad 
white breast. 

When ready for nesting he digs a round 
hole four inches or so in diameter in the 
side of some clayey bank and about a 
yard below the surface, excavating to the 
depth of about six or seven feet, and 
enlarging it to quite a commodious cavity 
at the end — in which he fixes up for him- 
self a very comfortable retreat of dried 
grasses and feathers. 

[53] 



A Book on Birds 



The Kingfisher is well named, for he 
generally has in fact a royal time of it 
when he turns to the piscatorial duties 
of his daily routine. Sometimes he dives 
into the water after his prey in the very 
course of a long, swift flight close to its 
surface; at others, he makes his plunge 
from a favorable perch at the end of a 
broken log projecting beyond the bank; 
but, whatever the method, he is an adept 
at the business and rarely fails to get what 
he goes after; nor does he often neglect 
to let out his rattling cry, as he emerges 
dripping wet, especially if the finny victim 
in his clutch be a big one; and it seems 
to me on these occasions to have a rollick- 
ing note of exultation in it, instead of 
alarm. 



[54] 








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My Morning Minstrel 



My Morning Minstrel 

In sackcloth clad, from hill and plain, 
The day advances, bathed in tears; 
But music stirs my sluggish ears, — 

A Robin singing in the rain! 

I rise, and in the dull gray light 
I see him from my window-seat, 
The leafless branches 'neath his feet 

Half hid by lingering mists of night. 

Against his draggled front, forlorn, 

The chill March breezes moan and sigh; 
But still, with head uplifted high, 

He carols bravely to the morn. 

Then I who listen feel a glow — 

A quick thanksgiving — touch my heart; 
The veil is rent, the mists depart, 

Again the vernal zephyrs blow. 

While, with the song, from everywhere, 
A sudden flush of spring descends, 
And, even as the singer ends, 

Sweet breath of blossoms fills the air. 

happy-throated minstrel mine, 

I bless the dawn that gave thee birth, 
And set the tenderest chord of earth 

Within that sturdy breast of thine! 



[55 



Chapter IV 

IN THE WAKE OF THE BROWN THRASHER 

THE finest woodland singer of the first 
real days of spring in my neighbor- 
hood, and the one most lavish with 
his splendid store of song is undoubtedly 
the Brown Thrasher— the " Thrush" that is 
not a Thrush at all, but a species of Mock- 
ing-bird. 

And he is a wise singer, too, — his habit of 
ignoring the deceptive lures of the vernal 
equinox and delaying his arrival until the 
white cherry-blossoms have in fact appeared, 
and fill the thicket with their fragrance, 
and the clusters of the spicewood warm and 
brighten it with gold, adding not a little 
to the witchery of his wonderful voice. 

He may be expected with almost absolute 
certainty by the twentieth of April where 
I live, along with the Chimney Swift and 
the Wren; but scarcely an hour before that. 

[56] 



In the Wake of the Brown Thrasher 

Then, however, and for several weeks 
after, you may start out any sunlit day 
and be sure of rinding him and hearing him 
hold forth for you at length and unafraid; 
provided, nevertheless, you go before ten 
o'clock, if in the morning, or not earlier 
than four, if your trip be taken in the 
afternoon. 

And it is quite probable he will make 
himself known while you are yet afar off; 
for his notes have the clear quality that 
gives them carrying power. 

Selecting a branch so located that there 
shall be naught between him and the 
slanting or level light from the east or 
west, he pours forth a rich and varied 
strain that loses little even by comparison 
with that of his more aristocratic cousin 
of the South — a strain which contains for 
him such ecstasy of delight that he over- 
looks your approach until you are so 
near you can discern the brilliant yellow 
of his eyes, the surge of his mottled breast 
and the opening and closing of his long and 
slender beak. 

[57] 



A Book on Birds 



Even when he sees you, and, alarmed by 
the crackling of a twig or some sudden 
and abrupt move you make as you draw 
closer, flies off to a new perch, he is likely 
to pick one but a short distance away and 
keep on singing as he goes, unwilling to 
check but for the moment or two of his 
flight the lovely tide of melody within him. 

Moreover, the advent of the Thrasher is 
notable also for other reasons beside the 
pleasure there is in it of itself. It is a sure 
sign that things long delayed have finally 
come to pass; that violets may be looked 
for among the dead swamp grass and 
briars; that the delicate anemone, some of 
it pale pink and some pearl white, is 
abloom in the leafy mold beneath the oak 
trees, and the spring beauty farther on 
above the dewy moss along the banks of the 
stream; and, last, but not least, that the 
best and most prolific time for the discovery 
and observation of birds in this part of the 
country is immediately at hand. 

For, though it will seem otherwise to the 
uninitiated, the month of June, when the 

[58] • 



In the Wake of the Brown Thrasher 

year has reached its full flood, will never 
be found quite so rich in results as the 
first two or three weeks in May; and this 
for a special reason with which all orni- 
thologists are well acquainted. 

In considering opportunities for seeing 
as many specimens as possible, birds divide 
themselves into two general classes — those 
that nest and make their home in our own 
fields and forests, and those that are 
merely migratory visitors. And we should 
never forget that these latter must be 
looked for while they are passing and loiter- 
ing on the way, or most of us will never 
have the chance to find and study them 
at all. 

It is because of this fact that the day of 
the coming of our friend the Thrasher is 
especially interesting. His clear, sweet 
voice leads on not only the great multitude 
of those that remain with us all summer, 
but the multitude of birds of passage as 
well, including the wonderful little Wood 
Warblers (these alone numbering some 
twenty-five kinds) and many others beside; 

[59] 



A Book on Birds 



all of whom may be searched out and 
identified one by one to your delight, from 
the day you first see him. 

Therefore, now, if ever, sally forth upon 
your questing. For just now the home 
birds that await you — increased by new 
arrivals every day — will be found in com- 
pany almost everywhere with the migrants, 
these displaying many exquisite charms of 
brilliant plumage and voice that even the 
others we love so well do not possess. 

It is true, indeed, that some few of the 
transient visitors reach us much earlier 
than the Thrasher and have already pro- 
ceeded northward. Among this number 
is the Fox Sparrow — a bird every lover of 
birds should know. He is quite the largest 
of the nine different members of his clan 
with whom I am familiar, and he is pretty 
certain to reveal himself, before your eyes 
detect him, by his ever-recurring and 
wonderfully bright and warbling note, which 
has a gentle tremolo in it, put there possibly 
by the impulse of his short, quick, restless 
flights from limb to limb. 

[60] 



In the Wake of the Brown Thrasher 

Let us look him up a bit. It is early 
morning, clear but cool, and the trees are 
still leafless. You have caught the mys- 
terious lure of his voice (coming from every- 
where and nowhere, like that of the Blue- 
bird), and he has companions with him to 
the number of a dozen or so; and yet 
you find it impossible to fix any of them 
longer than an instant, so shy and elusive 
are they; until at last one actually does 
sit quiet with his back toward you on 
the gray and white branch of a button- 
wood tree. 

Then you find through your field-glass 
that his feathers are streaked slate color 
from the crown of his head to his rump, 
and that here they change with absolute 
abruptness to a strange cinnamon-brown 
down to the end of his tail. He is almost 
as large as the Hermit Thrush and his 
white breast is conspicuously marked with 
many rich brown blotches. 

Up in Canada, where he spends the 
summer, his music — which with us is but 
a^ thrillingly sweet hint of a real song — 

[61] 



A Book on Birds 



develops, it is said, into strains of con- 
siderable length and rare and entrancing 
beauty. 

Close in the wake of the Thrasher every 
spring comes the exceptional and eccentric 
Chimney Swift — a bird we see by the 
thousand at a distance and yet know far 
less of than we imagine. 

By many he is called a Swallow; but 
mistakenly, as he belongs to an entirely 
different family of which, by the way, he 
is the only representative in our climate. 

Those who have never observed him 
close at hand, but entirely on the wing, 
in his wonderfully rapid and circling flight 
through the sky (for he is hardly ever 
known to alight on a tree — or anything 
else, for that matter, than the inside of 
a chimney) have no idea what an odd- 
looking specimen he is. 

His head is almost as flat as that of a 
catfish, his beak is so stubby it is scarcely 
any beak at all; his mouth is broad and 
large, and what face he has is ridiculously 
short, with a fullness on either side that 

[62] 





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In the Wake of the Brown Thrasher 

is at once suggestive of the jolly, round 
cheeks of a Brownie. 

His body is so abbreviated and his 
pinions are so long that when cleaving 
the air (and no bird under heaven delights 
more to do this nor has a merrier, livelier 
time at it than he), this rollicking little 
fellow of lightning speed looks not unlike 
a large wishbone on the wing. 

And who has not watched with fascinated 
interest his bewildering capers in the sky? 
Twittering incessantly as he goes, he seems 
the very abandon of free and joyous motion 
— never tiring, nor relaxing for rest, but 
apparently bent each new moment on some 
bolder and more startling tangent than any 
undertaken before. 

He even does all his eating on the wing, 
so that his gyrations are not entirely for 
pure sport after all; and— what is really 
remarkable — he actually snaps off while 
in flight the small, dead twigs of trees 
which he uses in the construction of his 
nest. This, in turn, is most strangely 
made and quite as unique as the bird 

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A Book on Birds 



himself, the twigs composing it being shied 
together by him like wicker-work with a 
gelatinous substance, secreted in his mouth, 
and fastened rudely, without any lining 
of grass or feathers, against the inside of 
the chimney — somewhat as a semi-circular 
fungus to the bark of a tree. 

In earlier times the Swift made his home 
in caves and hollow trunks of the forest, 
and resorted to chimneys when these ap- 
peared because, probably, like many other 
birds, he is of a social disposition and seeks 
proximity to human habitations; and for 
the further reason, no doubt, that he found 
as caves and hollow trunks grew fewer 
with the march of civilization, the number 
of large, well-warmed and easily accessible 
chimneys continually increased. 

One of the most entertaining sights 
imaginable is to watch a flock of Swifts at 
evening in early autumn, circling some one 
of these towering piles of brick or stone for 
an hour or so after sunset, in a wild, merry- 
go-round flight, and finally pouring down 
into it in a great stream. 

[64] 



In the Wake of the Brown Thrasher 

Some years ago two or three hundred of 
them indulged in this performance nearly 
every clear night during the month of Sep- 
tember at All Saints' church, near my 
home in Norristown, Pennsylvania, much 
to the astonishment and delight of a number 
of small folk to whom it was entirely novel, 
and who turned out regularly to see it. 
The chimney here is capacious, or there 
would not have been room for them all. 

They go inside to find shelter and sleep, 
of course, clinging close together along the 
interior until sometimes it is lined com- 
pletely, and getting additional support for 
themselves from the stiff spikes or spines 
with which they are provided for that 
purpose in place of a tail. 

The circumstance that Chimney Swifts 
feed entirely on insects, which they take 
while in flight (and they are able to do this 
at night as well as during the day time), 
results in season in their becoming indi- 
rectly a sort of natural barometer. When 
prevailing clear weather is to continue, the 
bugs they relish fly high in the buoyant 

[65] 



A Book on Birds 



atmosphere; and so must they to get them. 
While a heavy, moist air pulls both down 
close to the surface of the earth. And who 
has not seen this? The birds soaring at 
times in a bright, blue sky so far aloft 
they were almost invisible; and, again, on 
a changeful day sweeping by so low as to 
just graze the tops of the fences. 

The Chimney Swift is very softly and 
closely feathered, and in color is an ashen- 
black above, and a pearl-gray upon throat 
and upper breast. 

What becomes of him in winter has 
been a much-mooted question among orni- 
thologists, some of whom, after repeated 
unsuccessful efforts to find the terminus 
of his annual migration southward, declare 
that he seems to literally disappear from 
the face of the earth during the entire time 
cold weather prevails. Whether this means 
that he hibernates somewhat after the habit 
of snakes and bats; or, as is more likely, 
seeks some congenial bourne thus far 
unknown to us, is a matter still to be 
exactly determined. 

[66] 



In the Wake of the Brown Thrasher 

Another bird whose annual reappearance 
is suggested by the Swift because he is 
equally eccentric, is the Night-hawk. He, 
too, may be seen quite easily in summer, 
for he feeds in very much the same way 
and has a habit of doing it at evening also, 
and immediately over a town or city. His 
head bears a marked resemblance in shape, 
particularly about the thin, wide mouth, to 
the head of a frog, and some of his habits 
are very odd indeed. He builds no nest 
at all, but his two darkly-spotted, oblong 
eggs are laid directly on the ground — usually 
on the side of some small hill, bare of grass, 
at the stoniest and most unprotected place 
he can find. 

If you should discover them — and it is 
hard to do so, because they blend with 
their surroundings — he will occasionally 
take them in his mouth one at a time, 
at the first opportunity afterward, and 
deposit them at some new point a little 
distance away, where you will not be 
likely to come across them again. 

The Night-hawk is nearly the size of a 

[67] 



A Book on Birds 



small Blackbird; is dark in hue and finely 
speckled; and has a conspicuous white 
patch about the middle of each wing which 
looks like a hole when he is flying. 

He may be identified at once during the 
first half-hour of twilight by the way he 
rises in the air in short, quick flights, 
uttering a piping cry with each, and, 
having reached an altitude satisfactory 
to his taste, dives down, either in sport 
or to capture some gnat he has sighted 
below — the air rushing through his bristling 
wings and making a hollow noise as he goes, 
like that produced by blowing into the open 
mouth of a bottle. 

The sharp contrast between birds like the 
Night-hawk and the Chimney Swift, who 
somehow seem unpleasantly transformed 
as if by the smoke and grime of centers 
of human habitation, and all the others, 
like the Thrasher, who suggest nothing but 
the freshness and beauty of nature, just 
as it was at the beginning, is always 
apparent; and it stirs an instant, deeper 
longing for orchard and meadow and rip- 

[68] 



In the Wake of the Brown Thrasher 

pling brook, and wooded slope, and the 
boundless firmament, where the myriads 
a-wing that have never gotten beyond 
these native elements for which alone 
they are so evidently made, are joyfully 
assembling as I write. 



[69] 



A Book on Birds 



The Boy of the By-Way 

One April morning, as I went 

To work, depressed and uncontent, 

I met a lad who made me glad 

In a trice with some odd tricks he had. 

The air was cool and brightly clear, 
And he cried, the moment I drew near, 
"Oh, uncle, say — isn't this a day? — 
Turn off that street and come my way!" 

"It's farther, I know, thro' the fields, but yet 
You're early — and think of the fun you'll get!" 
And he coaxed — and still he coaxed, until] 
I said at last "I believe I will!" 

So over a fence we leaped and then 
Ran down a hill and up again; 
Then wheeled about and shouted out, 
And looked back over our rambling route. 

Then he did a handspring, and then a lot 
Of other stunts I had half forgot; 
And he stoned a mark, and whispered, "Hark— 
While I whistle a bit and lure that Lark!" 

And the more he did the better I felt, 
And the sweeter the vernal breezes smelt; 
Till, at last, when he sang till the echoes rang, 
I tingled clean thro' with his own wild tang. 

[70] 



The Boy of the By-Way 



And I vowed to myself I had never seen 
The sky so blue or the grass so green; 
Nor everywhere the earth so fair 
And utterly free from pain and care! 

And, feeling thus, when we came to part, 

I thought, " Here's a youngster I've liked from the 

start, 
And henceforth — egad! — when I'm sour and sad 
'Twill be well to remember this same lad." 

So I called, as he vanished from sight, "Old man, 
Let us meet some day again, if you can!" 
"Sure! count on me" — with a laugh said he, 
"For I'm simply the boy you used to be!" 



[71] 



Chapter V 

RAINY WEATHER AND WRENS 

THE "bad days" that so frequently in- 
terrupt the vernal tide during April 
and early May in our climate, check- 
ing it with the chill of winter, are after 
all of no mean value because of the way 
they accentuate by contrast the glory of 
the others. Indeed, I have sometimes 
thought that with fewer of them spring 
might even grow monotonous. It would at 
least fail to stir within us that peculiar 
sense of appreciative joy we inevitably 
feel upon the sunlit morning — fresh, frag- 
rant, blossomy — which sooner or later is 
sure to follow what we counted perhaps a 
disastrous spell of unseasonable weather. 

Furthermore, the abundant rains produce 
a wealth of foliage and vegetation which, of 
course, would otherwise be lacking. 

My attention was particularly attracted 

[72] 



Rainy Weather and Wrens 



to this latter fact during several years 
(in every one of which long stretches of 
these "bad days' ' — with peerlessly beauti- 
ful breaks in them — were the prevailing 
order well on toward June) whenever I 
went forth from my home to a desolate tract 
of land, not far away, which but recently 
before had been the site of a noble wood. 
I found here that the incessant showers 
helped things in a marvelous manner, 
hiding rapidly under their influence beneath 
many a leafy covert the grievous hurt that 
had been done in leveling the great trees 
to make way for the extension and develop- 
ment of the town. 

Bushes, vines and saplings soon sprang 
into profuse growth on all sides. And 
then the birds came, as to few places else- 
where, and helped along not a little, singing 
daily the wraiths of the trees as it were 
into deep forgetfulness. 

And it happened somehow that, in the 
whole throng of them, I learned to love 
the Wrens best. This may have been, I 
admit, because of previous prejudice in 

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A Book on Birds 



their favor; for they have a universal way 
of getting near to the heart of man. 

But in any event at this place their cheery 
talk invariably appeared to invite and 
attract me first. 

Of course I encountered only one species 
— the House Wren; and who does not know 
it almost as well as he knows himself? 

For, as his name suggests, he delights 
in human companionship, this trait of his 
being so pronounced that he is liable to 
settle down and build his nest in almost 
any place at all associated with the habita- 
tions or haunts of men. 

I remember once finding one of these little 
fellows — after searching high and low in 
vain for a half hour, lured on by his excited 
chatter — most comfortably ensconced for 
the summer, with his tiny brood of seven, 
in the recesses of an old boot caught tight 
fast in the branching forks of a big apple 
tree at the rear door of a farmhouse up 
in the country — the very last nook in the 
whole neighborhood where I had thought of 
looking. 

[74] 



Rainy Weather and Wrens 



Following his usual methods he had 
filled the boot chock-full of clean, dry- 
grass, lined with soft white feathers; and 
as the top of it pointed downward a trifle, 
he and his family were just as well sheltered 
in it from the rain as in the holes in trees 
and boxes to which they ordinarily resort. 

The House Wren is so small (his actual 
length of body not much exceeding two 
inches, as a rule, exclusive of beak and tail) 
that one of the most remarkable things 
about him is the amount of noise he 
makes — and this, too, notwithstanding the 
fact he seems to have an impediment in his 
speech. 

He sings incessantly, his strain always 
starting with an amount of splutter and 
stammering that seems to give him a whole 
lot of trouble, before he finally breaks 
through into the whirling little cadenza of 
true melody with which he brings it to a 
close. 

His back and head are brown and his 
breast is of dull gray; but the marks by 
which he may be most easily identified 

[75] 



A Book on Birds 



(excepting always his diminutive size and 
peculiar " spiral" music) are his narrow 
beak and short, straight tail-feathers, tilted 
upward at an angle that grows sharper as 
you approach more closely to his nest.; 

No bird can be studied with less trouble 
than he, for he will allow you to get as 
near to him as any I know. And no 
opportunity for meeting him on every hand 
could possibly be better than that still 
offered by this overgrown tract near my 
own town. 

Next to the Wrens in this same locality 
I found the Brown Thrasher the most 
interesting. 

In the morning before eight o'clock, once 
I had reached the bushes and saplings, 
I generally heard his music coming from 
three or four directions at once. 

And I never failed to stop and listen a 
little in enrapt silence. 

For, as we have said in the preceding 
chapter, it is music well worth while — 
though only those who hear it in its first 
freshness in the spring know it to the full. 

[76] 



Rainy Weather and Wrens 



Then, however, I think it nearly on a par 
with that of his kinsfolk, the Wood Thrush 
or the Hermit — the latter rated by many the 
most melodious in nature. 

In support of this opinion I may mention 
the case of a friend who, though a true 
naturalist by instinct and education, came 
to me once and declared he had heard a 
Southern Mocking-bird singing in the wood 
near his home the previous morning. 

When I suggested that this one must have 
lost his bearings completely to stray so far 
up into Pennsylvania — and so early in the 
season, too — he met my doubt by saying 
that he would try to find it again and 
examine it through his field-glass; the 
result being that he reported a day or two 
later that his " Southern Mocking-bird" 
was simply a Brown Thrasher (as I sus- 
pected), whose wonderful vocal powers 
were a genuine revelation to him. 

And so they will be to you — if you 
approach his choir-loft (usually the top- 
most branch of a small tree where he can 
feel the early sunshine full upon his face) 

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A Book on Birds 



with " light and airy tread/ ' until you are 
very near; and then keep quiet long enough 
to hear his performance to the end. 

You will have no trouble in discovering 
him — for he is a big bird (larger than the 
Robin), his back and tail being of reddish, 
rusty brown, the tail-feathers very long. 

Moreover, in this quest for the Thrasher 
you will by this time of the year be likely 
to meet many delightful diversions on 
every side. 

At almost the same point where I used to 
hear the Thrashers a Flicker had his home 
in a hole about eight feet from the ground 
in an old wreck of a tree. 

As often as I came there with friends 
and knocked just below with a stick or a 
stone he would come out very promptly 
to find who it might be. 

Whereupon, if these friends had not met 
him before, they were always taken aback 
with surprise at his appearance; for a full- 
fledged Flicker is a " sight to see," being 
" dressed to kill" in a lot of gaudy and 
superfluous finery, stuck on haphazard, 

[78] 



Rainy Weather and Wrens 



like that of a proud and very ancient old 
maid. 

His fixings are of six or seven colors, some 
of which " clash" badly — the most con- 
spicuous being the bluish-gray and faded 
pink about his throat, the great patch of 
scarlet at the nape of the neck, and the 
flaming yellow of the under parts of the 
wings. 

In this fondness for gay apparel the male 
and female Flickers are almost exactly 
alike, being in this an exception to the 
rule among birds, which is that the head 
of the family appropriates the brighter, 
showier tints all to himself, leaving only 
the dull and neutral shades as the humble 
portion of his mate. 

In flight also the Flicker differs markedly 
from most birds, going up and down, 
with a wave motion, like the little American 
Goldfinch. 

And finally he is even more exceptional 
in one other particular. His behavior in 
the mating season when making overtures 
to the lady of his choice is one of the most 

[79] 



A Book on Birds 



laughable spectacles in nature. Love seems 
to set him daft completely, his idiotic ten- 
dencies under its influence showing them- 
selves chiefly in a most remarkable stretch- 
ing and twisting of his long neck, with 
many outlandish movements in every pos- 
sible direction, whenever sitting near his 
fiancee — the insanity of it all quickly com- 
municating itself to her with similar results. 
Two boys whom I once called to watch 
a pair thus affected, and perched about a 
yard apart on the branch of a cherry tree, 
declared in astonishment that they acted 
as though they had been drinking. But I 
told them it was intoxication of another 
kind. 



[80] 



My First Bobolink 



My First Bobolink 

At mid-morning yesterday, up in the hills 

I met a strange bird with such wonderful trills 

And magical blending of music and noise, 

(Like the composite voice of a group of small boys, 

Or perhaps, better still, like a half-dozen girls, 
Some chatting, some singing, in eddies and whirls 

Of small talk and melody, all in a mix), 

He stopped and dumfounded me quite with his tricks. 

Now who can he be, thought I, thus to pour forth 
Such warm southern ecstasy here in the north? 

He's new to me surely — yet surely I've read 
Somewhere of those black and white wings, and that 
head 

Tilted upward so pert, with its saucy buff cap — 
So far back and so small that the slightest mishap 

Might, methought, jar it off in a trice to the ground — 
Oh, who is this very bird-Babel of sound? 

Thus I questioned in wonder — yet not lacking 

delight, 
As, with all its confusion, his voice charmed me 

quite : 

For the sunshine was in't — when the plashing of rain 
Of a sweet April day — then the sunshine again; 

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A Book on Birds 



But, most, the great gladness of spring at the flood, 
The quickening gladness one feels in the blood. 

So, nearer and nearer I drew, loth to go 
Unacquaint with my minstrel, still singing; when, lo, 

(Mirabile dictu!) the bird seemed to talk, 

Saying, "How-dy-do, friend! — you are out for a walk 

"And can't guess who I am — that is easy to trace 
From the puzzled expression all over your face. 

"Fm a little far north, I'll admit; just the same 
A field-lover, like you, should at once know my name. 

"Here's a strain with a somersault in it, or two, 
Pray, tell me, sir, don't that suggest it to you? — 

"Or this, with a movement so much to my taste 
I sing it both backward and forward, nor waste 

"A note or a syllable doing it — see? 
There — I've mentioned my name, and you missed 
it — ah me! 

"But I'll give you just one warble more, while you 

think; — 
Ho, you've hit it at last! — au revoir! — Bobolink!" 



[82] 



Chapter VI 

THE WOOD WARBLERS 

TO the newly initiated, seeking a knowl- 
edge of birds in any part of that 
wide expanse of territory, already 
designated, which takes in my own stamp- 
ing-ground (and which, to be more exact 
this time, extends from the middle counties 
of Pennsylvania to the upper boundaries 
of Maryland and runs across into New 
England on the one side and to the Missis- 
sippi on the other) the fact of the existence 
of the large and brilliant feathered family 
styled "Wood Warblers" is always sure to 
come at first with a deeply fascinating 
surprise and interest. 

For it seems almost unbelievable for 
a while that these charming little winged 
beauties should appear and depart year 
after year, in great number and variety — 
and yet the mass of people not be acquainted 
with them, or, indeed, even see them at all. 

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A Book on Birds 



The circumstance is attributable of course 
to their diminutive size, their extremely 
quiet and retiring habits, and the fact that 
most of them do not nest here — but farther 
north, even unto Canada and Labrador 
and the land of Evangeline. 

But notwithstanding this, our lack of 
knowledge is still remarkable — for in migrat- 
ing they are with us sometimes as long as 
three or four weeks, both spring and fall, 
and most of them are so wonderfully bright 
of color that they are nothing less than an 
embodied joy to behold. 

There are probably as many as twenty- 
five species that pass our way, in these 
silent, semi-annual flights of theirs; and 
upon clear days, as the sunlight discloses 
them amidst the foliage, they flash and 
sparkle like precious stones — in their 
incomparable hues of carmine and gold, 
sapphire and emerald, brown and ebony, 
orange and white. 

In all this shining galaxy the Maryland 
Yellow-throat, the American Redstart, the 
Yellow-breasted Chat and the Golden- 

[841 




At His Ever Open Door 
The Flicker 

(See page 78) 



The Wood Warblers 



crowned Thrush (styled also the Oven- 
bird, from the peculiar shape of his nest, 
as well as the " Teacher ," from the resem- 
blance his music bears to this word, pro- 
nounced quickly a half dozen times and 
with varying accent), and the Yellow 
Warbler, are most numerous and familiar 
because many of these build here. 

But one other I have found very conspic- 
uous in the wooded haunts I know; first, 
by reason of his solitary arrival about the 
beginning of April, before all the rest; 
and, second, because his contrasts of color 
(at least, as I have seen him, for bird- 
plumage is sometimes a very changeable 
quantity) are so great as to make him 
exceptional even among Wood Warblers. 

I refer to the Palm Warbler — a delightful 
bird to me, and most friendly, approach- 
able, and charming to behold hopping 
about quietly over the thickly-spread brown 
leaves and through the naked branches, in 
his lovely habiliments of yellow striped 
with rich brown, below, and dusky olive 
above, with touches of pure white here 

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A Book on Birds 



and there in wings and tail, and the bright, 
distinctive crown (too chestnut in tint to 
be red, and yet too red to be chestnut) 
which covers the entire top of his graceful 
little poll and is so warmly beautiful that 
one's pulses quicken a bit every time a 
vernal sunbeam finds it. 

Would that every beginner might first 
discover him as I did, with Hermit Thrushes 
to keep him company and make the 
morning glad! 

If, however, you start forth into the 
country at the season in which I am now 
writing, do not expect him. 

It is well on in May and he has probably 
been gone for almost a month. 

At present I think you will be far more 
likely to meet at once the Maryland Yellow- 
throat instead. 

And suppose you really do start and see! 

Unless he has changed his habits, he 
has been disporting himself for some time 
in these thickets, and the leafy, tangled 
underbrush just over the fence, across the 
road. 

[86] 



The Wood Warblers 



And you will almost certainly hear him 
before he reveals himself. For his note is 
loud for so small a bird, though not by 
any means unmusical; and, beside this, it 
is so striking in its repetition that it will 
not fail to attract your attention instantly. 
It sounds to me, for reasons hereinbefore 
stated, very like the name Jessica, reiterated 
four times rapidly and in a high key — 
having in it the distinct inflection of voice 
of a little child calling in a tone of tearful 
alarm and distress. 

But when at last you find him, your eyes 
will quicken to a vision of rare beauty; 
for " Solomon in all his glory, was not 
arrayed like one of these/ ' And that you 
may judge of this the better here is his 
" color scheme": Back — olive green; chin, 
throat, breast, undercoverts and edge of 
wings — bright yellow, fading into a soft 
buff white; forehead, and a broad band 
upon sides of neck — pure black, bordered 
with gray; wings and tail glossed with 
yellowish olive. 

But, bright a picture as he makes, there 

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A Book on Birds 



are other Wood Warblers, and many of 
them, even brighter than he. And Indian 
Creek (a stream, well known to Audubon, 
flowing into the Schuylkill river about two 
miles above Norristown) is of all localities 
within my own observation the place of 
places to find them. Here they linger in 
the spring until Memorial Day, feeding and 
flitting from twig to twig amidst the thick 
branches shot with sunlight that overhang 
the clear and rippling surface of the water. 
And it was among these little migrants 
that Audubon came upon his rarest and 
most beautiful " finds," along this very 
stream during those days a century ago 
when he found also his bride and made 
his home in the famous house by the 
Perkiomen, which still stands there in 
perfect preservation and good order. 

As we think of this our quest becomes 
invested at once with a deeper, finer 
interest; the velvety moss seems richer 
beneath our tread, and the older forest 
trees which tower to the sky along the high, 
precipitous banks seem to tell faintly of 

[88] 



The Wood Warblers 



other, unforgotten footsteps; for Audubon 
was unquestionably the truest bird-lover of 
us all. 

And if we have not thus far realized it 
in Pennsylvania as we should, there are 
nevertheless signs we are approaching 
gradually a full recognition of the fact. 

Down in Louisiana, where he was born 
while the Revolution was still in progress, 
they have, at New Orleans, a magnificent 
park bearing his name, which, with its 
splendid Horticultural Hall filled with trop- 
ical trees and plants, and its model sugar 
and cotton farm fronting on the Mississippi, 
constitutes an adequate monument to this 
pioneer, who won kings for his patrons 
that they might help him bring to successful 
completion after many years a publication 
which has commanded the admiration of 
the world ever since. 

And his position in the realm of natural 
history has been marked almost as well in 
New York and elsewhere. So that when 
we, of my own State, who have larger claim 
to him perhaps than any others, take steps 

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A Book on Birds 



in time to accord him further honor (as 
we no doubt will), what we do will be 
justified by many worthy precedents. Nor 
will we find local inspiration lacking entirely. 
The great naturalist's quaint but dignified 
old mansion up in Montgomery county 
has been nobly looked after for many 
years by a well-known family; and every 
ornithologist of the present generation who 
has ever made it his Mecca has returned 
thence with renewed zeal and enthusiasm. 

However, this is parenthetical. Let us 
return to the Wood Warblers at Indian 
Creek, some of which Audubon first dis- 
covered here, painting them into his im- 
mortal series of more than a thousand 
specimens. 

As we come, the American Redstart 
meets us directly, and almost before we are 
well amongst the trees. Think of a bird only 
about the size of your thumb in the brilliant 
garb of the Baltimore Oriole — and you 
have him; except that the flaming orange 
red, which is his dominant color, is some- 
times even more splendid than the Oriole's. 

[90] 



The Wood Warblers 



But the Redstart is only the preliminary 
relish to a very feast of sights for those 
who press on through these dim-lit, winding 
aisles. 

The Magnolia, the Myrtle, the Chestnut- 
sided, the Parula and three or four other 
Warblers are here; and then beside these 
you may see or hear, if you stay long 
enough, the Wood Pewee, the Crested 
Flycatcher, the Yellow-billed Cuckoo, the 
Kingbird, the Turtle Dove, the Red-eyed 
Vireo, and the White-breasted Swallow; 
and, perhaps, far outside in the meadows 
somewhere — a few noisy, rollicking Bobo- 
links. 

For June, with her roses, is not far away; 
the Goldfinches, after a whole month spent 
among us in light-hearted idleness and 
dissipation, have begun to think of nesting; 
the Ruby-throated Humming-bird may be 
looked for soon; and they who glory in 
God's open air will ere long have come 
again to their own full heritage. 



[91] 



A Book on Birds 



The Hermit Thrush 

Sweet singer, in the high and holy place 
Of this dim-lit cathedral of the hills; 

With reverent brow and unuplifted face, 
I quaff the cup thy melody distills. 

What sparkling well of limpid music springs 

Within thy breast, to quench my thirst like this! 

What nameless chords are hid beneath thy wings, 
That all my soul is quickened by thy bliss! 

Perchance the same mysterious desire 

Hath brought us both to this deep shrine as one; 
For now it burns a single flame of fire, 

Dropped through the branches from the setting 
sun! 

And as thou singest, lo, the voice is mine, 

Each note a thought; each thought, a silent prayer, 

Of joy, of peace — of ecstasy divine, 

Poured forth upon the fragrant woodland air. 

And I, who stand aloof, am not alone, 

Here in these great cathedral aisles untrod; 

O, Hermit, thou has opened heaven, unknown, 
And through thy song have I communed with God. 



[92] 



Chapter VII 

TANGLEWOOD LANE AND SKIPPACK CREEK 

IN the rural borough of Collegeville, 
only a short distance above my home 
and as dear to my heart as some typi- 
cal New England town like Concord to that 
of an average Yankee, there is a sequestered 
road which, just about the time it had drifted 
back finally to primeval nature even in the 
midst of civilization, was, strange to say, 
advanced in nomenclature to the proud 
dignity of " Fifth avenue.' ' 

It is a case which proves that with roads 
also, as with roses, there is nothing in a 
name. At least not very much. " Fifth 
avenue" it may be for a square or so, if 
you insist. But no farther. For, after 
that, it slips around a sharp turn; shakes 
off its ponderous, ill-fitting title with quick 
impatience; plunges down a rocky hill, 
just grazing a fine little patch of forest 

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trees, and becomes in another moment the 
very "Tanglewood lane" of my boyhood 
days; except that it seems even more 
tangled and woodsy than ever. 

Of course this village street which strays 
so easily into wilding oblivion is still in 
some measure (let us say to the extent of 
two farm wagons a week) a traveled 
thoroughfare; it being in fact the first real 
cross-road you meet to the right, going 
northward through the town. Yet permit 
it to lead you but two hundred paces 
toward the river and you will find, as I 
have stated, that it is not at all what it is 
paraded to be, but something vastly more 
delightful; provided, of course, the season 
be propitious, and you a lover of nature. 

I myself have had a special affection for 
it as long as I can remember; an affection 
which has not diminished by any means as 
with each succeeding summer, because of 
encroaching growths of bush and briar 
and sapling on either side, and grape and 
honeysuckle overhead, it has become more 
and more attractive to birds. 



94] 



Tanglewood Lane and Skippack Creek 

Its devious, vagrant course covers hardly- 
half a mile, all told, to the point where 
it ends abruptly on the high, steep bank of 
the Perkiomen. Yet, with these great 
masses of fragrant foliage which it accumu- 
lates by the middle of May for our winged 
friends of earth and air, it is a widely sought 
and ample rendezvous of theirs from then 
on until October. 

But, now that I have said this much, 
let us stop off on our way thither to-day 
and thus not only prolong your pleasure 
of anticipation with regard to it, but reap 
other pleasure beside. 

And, suiting the action to the word, how 
could we do better than turn aside just 
where we are this minute and loiter along 
Skippack creek a little, ere the sun goes 
down? There is a passage-way open right 
here, between the end of the bridge wall 
and the fence that does not quite meet it; 
and, going through, we are in a most bird- 
like atmosphere at once. 

June is so near you can feel her immediate 
advent. The dark, mossy turf is bright 

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A Book on Birds 



with spring beauties and Quaker ladies and 
white violets; the great, tall trees (beeches, 
oaks, locusts, and sycamores) have gentle 
breezes in them that make beautiful play 
with the sunlight on the leaves; and the 
slope of the banks beneath goes straight 
down to the purling water and the quiet 
stone arch through which it flows. 

Out beyond the trees there is a great 
meadow, well shut in; and here the grass 
is thick with buttercups and daisies and 
more Quaker ladies, beside many patches 
of the Star of Bethlehem, in its pure and 
lovely garb of green and white. The 
meadow is intersected by a tumbling wall, 
with a line of half-dead willows running 
through it; and the hills on the far side rise 
sharply and are well covered with other 
ancient trees, under which the perfume of 
sweet cicely ascends everywhere, like 
subtile incense through the overhanging 
branches; and the May apple, with its 
bloom in hiding, spreads like a deep, 
broad carpet; and the yellow of the wild 
mustard and the pale purple of the cranes- 

[96] 



Tanglewood Lane and Skippack Creek 

bill appear here and there and everywhere, 
enlivening the gloom. 

But we have not arrived at the woods 
without many a pause as we came. And 
just because we have simply sauntered along 
silently, making these frequent halts by 
the way, and sitting down indeed at several 
points for nearly a half hour at a stretch, 
the birds have been most numerous, familiar 
and unafraid throughout the entire distance 
between. 

How hard it is to adhere to correct 
methods of approach in anything! When 
the amateur ornithologist is wise enough 
to remember that the surest way to see 
birds is merely to pick out a comfortable 
place somewhere in the open and then 
wait in patience until they actually come to 
him — instead of thrashing about after them, 
with fuss and fume, he generaify has his 
reward; for, after the lapse of only a com- 
paratively short time, following this plan, 
the spot that seemed entirely deserted will 
as a rule show signs of life, if he but keep 
quite still; and eyes, and wings, and voices 

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he wist not of will begin to manifest them- 
selves. 

Thus do we find it this afternoon. First 
we hear the stealthy "chuck, chuck!" 
of Wood Thrushes; then the two, high, 
noisy notes of the Kingfisher, which, ming- 
ling with those of the Blue Jay, seem very 
like them to-day; then the creaky little 
voice of the Downy Woodpecker. And 
then we not only hear sounds but commence 
to "see things"; and, behold, the emptiness 
is peopled with our friends! 

From under the bridge come two Phcebes; 
immediately overhead the smooth gray 
figure of a Catbird emerges from the faintly 
rustling foliage, the big spot of mahogany- 
brown showing plain beneath the long tail- 
feathers; over the tulip tree, right beyond 
the fence a Kingbird hovers in that quick, 
nervous flight of his resembling exactly his 
piercing note, and both of them in direct 
contrast with the quiet movements and 
voice of his crested cousin, who alights on 
a limb below. Then the sleek, well-groomed 
Yellow-billed Cuckoo; and the Baltimore 

[98] 



Tanglewood Lane and Skippack Creek 

Oriole and his mate, both singing about the 
same notes; and the dowdy Flicker; and 
the Meadow Lark, with his black breast- 
plate, one by one, show themselves, most 
of them drawing nearer and nearer, by 
easy stages. 

How perfectly simple it all seems, com- 
pared with some experiences we have had, 
when, after long and tiresome walking, 
up hill and down dale, we returned half- 
disgusted, having seen and heard practically 
no feathered folk worth speaking of ! 

Yet, come, come! — what of " Tanglewood 
lane"? We have started forward, and 
after fifteen minutes* stiff climbing have 
gained the rim of the woods, where we find 
we have just about enough time left to reach 
our Collegeville haunt by sunset — a most 
auspicious moment. So, through the fence 
we go again and up the turnpike! 

And, stepping along, we quite naturally 
begin to recall some previous sunset experi- 
ences. For sunsets play a larger part in 
bird-questing than those who do not know 
may imagine. And they assume especial 

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A Book on Birds 



importance when they come in a burst of 
brightness to crown some dark and dismal 
day; having very much the same effect 
under such conditions upon bird-hearts 
as the hearts of men and women; dispelling 
their sadness and depression, filling them 
with song, and often conjuring suddenly out 
of absolute silence almost as much woodland 
music as the most roseate dawn. 

Moreover, our brisk tramp — tramp — 
tramp — on the hard road-bed so quickens 
both memory and imagination that we 
recall in fact, on the instant as we proceed, 
at least one sunset of this very sort — a 
sunset many months previous above the 
Hundred-mile-woods in the verdant Chester 
valley. 

As evening drew on it seemed that the 
storm which had prevailed during the after- 
noon was to have its unbroken will through- 
out the night. But just in the fulness of 
time every barrier of gloom gave way and 
the heavens triumphed gloriously. 

Only a few brief moments remained for 
the victory when it came at length, and the 

[100] 




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Tanglewood Lane and Skippack Creek 

first bright banner of a royal host emerged 
in joy and flung its radiance afar; yet 
they were enough and to spare. For the 
chariots of the sun and all God's angels of 
light and color that lead them on are as 
swift as they are beautiful. 

Aflame with gold, and violet, and crim- 
son, of indescribable loveliness and many a 
baffling hue, they swept from the purple 
hills below and ascended toward the zenith. 

In a twinkling the black and leaden 
cloud-waste of the sky blossomed to 
magnificent and rosy splendor — splendor 
heaped up mightily, mass upon luminous 
mass — splendor spread out through illimit- 
able vistas, wave upon dazzling wave; 
like the land and sea of Paradise com- 
mingled and made one. 

And then broad reaches of ethereal 
verdure, rare and delicate of tint as earliest 
leaves of spring, appeared upon the vast of 
this celestial scene and extended into space; 
while, floating toward the point of vision, 
as though they had escaped on either side 
from the rainbow chariots in their flight, 

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A Book on Birds 



little fleecy clusters, white as snow and 
shining like transparent silver, heightened 
all the deeper and dominant effulgence 
which held sway beneath them and beyond. 

Thus — from shadowy river, and the 
meadows drenched with rain, and the lower- 
ing frown and menace of many wooded 
summits the sun withdrew with transcend- 
ent rejoicing; and yet almost as unnoticed 
of humanity in the silence as though its 
departure were at the very beginning of time 
and the earth itself still unpeopled. Except, 
perchance, that a home-bound toiler here 
and there looked up a little and was rested 
in his heart; or that some child paused 
in its evening play with wide and wondering" 
eyes and was given, as it gazed, a vague, 
sweet sense of Eden and the gardens of 
the blest. 

Except for this, and then, as I have said 
(and indeed in keeping with it), the uni- 
versal stirring and singing which followed 
after, among the re-awakened birds. 

But, behold!—" Fifth avenue" at last; and 
right around the corner "Tanglewood lane"! 

[102] 




w o 



Tanglewood Lane and Skippack Creek 

And here too, in truth, is the rocky hill; 
and so precipitous we must needs "put on 
the brakes" to keep from running as we 
descend; and here also the crumbling ruin 
of the old whitewashed stone house we boys 
thought haunted; passing which, we are 
once more brought to our old-time portal 
of the very heart of things. 

For at this point a brook of sparkling 
water, coming through the trees to the right, 
crosses our path; and just beyond it, where 
the bank on the same side rises gradually 
to a height of fifteen feet and is covered 
thick with blackberry, there confronts our 
vision a narrow vernal labyrinth with a most 
alluring vista of leafy loveliness looking 
at us from the far end and inviting us to 
make the passage and take possession. 

And now, as we respond and proceed, 
we realize immediately that the birds have 
truly gone before. In fact right over the 
gateway itself, where the rill runs by, and 
the branches are dense, and the level west- 
ern sunlight creeps through but lazily, a 
Wood Thrush, sitting calm and stately 

[103] 



A Book on Birds 



on a broken willow limb extending above, 
slackens and silences our footsteps with 
his rich vesper song; nor takes his leave 
until we are almost underneath. 

Then the Wild Dove (who for some reason 
is becoming a less familiar figure than 
formerly in these parts) cooes thrice and 
slips softly away to his nest of sticks and 
two white eggs back in the apple-orchard; 
and the Vesper Sparrow answers but holds 
his perch; and a Red-eyed Vireo actually 
comes nearer, sounding his rasping note; 
and then we see in succession a Crested 
Flycatcher; and a Chipping Sparrow; and 
a Song Sparrow, and a Yellow-billed 
Cuckoo, sad of voice; and a Catbird, in 
sharp contrast; and a Robin or two, and 
a Brown Thrasher, and the Baltimore 
Oriole, gorgeous and lively; and his kins- 
man of the orchard, not quite so brilliant 
but none the less alive; and a Yellow- 
hammer; and a Meadow Blackbird, who 
really ought to be out in the open;— these 
and others, all abundant in music; and, as 
we try to move in proper spirit with the 

[104] 




CQ 






Tanglewood Lane and Skippack Creek 

place and hour, most of it bidding us 
" welcome." 

And now, tempted by a little opening in 
the bushes, we leave the road for a moment, 
climb the bank, shaking down a shower 
of blossoms in the effort, and, gaining the 
top, disclose a broad field running along 
the marge of a wood, and covered with 
coarse weeds and briar and patches of 
the mountain pink, with a fine panorama 
of blue sky and miles of rolling country 
out beyond. 

Another irate Catbird forgets his manners 
and flies at us fiercely as we pass through; 
but we in turn forget him quickly upon 
hearing a faint, far voice from the upper 
air, and looking above discover two Night- 
hawks sailing along in quick, broken flight, 
and ever and anon swooping down with a 
rush and roar to capture a new tidbit for 
the evening meal. 

But what is this that rises noiselessly 
right at our feet and hurries away? Of a 
truth the Field Sparrow, none other; and — 
mirabile dictu! — here is his nest, without 

[105] 



A Book on Birds 



hunting for it — snug and cozy and beauti- 
ful — sheltered by a tuft of slender grasses 
half drawn together at the top like an 
Indian wigwam; and within its soft and 
silvery retreat four of the daintiest and 
rarest of eggs, of finer tint than many 
pearls, and not so very much larger than 
some, with delicate markings of five or six 
shades of brown to add to their beauty. 

We would fain linger a while in delight at 
the "find." But there is a mellow, mys- 
terious call from the shadowy wood just a 
stone's throw away and we follow on 
eagerly. 

And now great oaks again look down upon 
us, and the lure sounds nearer and brighter 
and more musical. What can it be? The 
long days of absence have made us forgetful. 
Ah, now we have it! There he is on that 
hemlock just ahead, the Scarlet Tanager — 
splendid flame of fire against the dusky 
brown and green — his voice as rich and 
warm as his matchless carmine vestments, 
and far less concerned because of us than 
we have ever known him before. 



106 



Tanglewood Lane and Skippack Creek 

Over and over again he carols his golden 
strain. 

A pair of sleek, long-tailed Brown 
Thrashers run along the ground, side by 
side, some distance ahead and disappear; 
a "Wild canary" chirps merrily and flies 
rollicking away — up and down, up and 
down, like a tiny canoe on the waves; 
then two Blue Jays rustle by voiceless, the 
only silent ones just now in all this dim-lit 
chapel of the woods, as if they felt their 
harsh and strident tones would be out of 
place and spoil the evening harmony; and 
far below — for the trees break off abruptly 
and there is a sheer fall of nearly two 
hundred feet as you look down — the limpid, 
winding water flows in noisy, babbling 
monotone over many a rock and shallow. 

There is deep magic in it all. But across 
the valley the sun has dropped behind the 
hills; the Chimney Swifts outside are 
gathering for their mad, twilight frolic 
until dark; Crow and Blackbird caw and 
clack more drowsily, and we must up and 
away. 

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A Book on Birds 



The Phcebes say " good-bye!" But the 
Larks call, " come again !" And as we count 
the latter especially close friends we whistle 
back to these, only, a promise that we will. 

Yet, to be exact, we do not really accept 
the invitation on their account alone but 
for all the other charms of this almost 
forgotten country road, so near the noise 
and bustle of the world, and yet so removed 
and secluded. 



[108] 



OQ 



^ 7 

CL, O 

k * 

is. 

CO 

cr w 




Man-o'-the-Wood and Golden-Throat 



Man-o'-the-Wood and Golden-Throat 

(Lines written upon meeting the Brown Thrasher) 

"What are you singing for — Golden-throat? 

The earth is empty here; 
In all these forest aisles remote 

There is not one listening ear. 
That glorious strain, celestial bird, 

Deserves a raptured throng; 
To pour it forth alone, unheard, 

Seems but a waste of song." 

"What are you loving for — Man-o'-the-wood? 

With heaven in your face; 
Amidst this utter solitude 

All love is out of place. 
Your Heart's-desire hath passed afar 

To brighter realms above; 
To keep on loving where you are 

Seems but a waste of love." 

"Just for the joy of it! — Golden-throat, 

The joy a true love brings." 
"And I, dear man, miss never a note 

For the joy a true song sings." — 
O, blithesome bird — thrice happy man! 

Such love, such song as yours 
Made life divine when life began, 

And will, while life endures. 



[109 



Chapter VIII 

TWO VIREOS AND SOME FRIENDS 

I ONE time watched at different periods 
of the day for several weeks a pair of 
Warbling Vireos that settled down for 
the summer in a large maple tree right on 
the turnpike road some three miles above 
my home. 

They had built their beautiful, cup- 
shaped nest in an overhanging branch some 
fifteen feet above the highway, and were not 
disturbed in the least by my ogling them 
through a field-glass to my heart's content; 
for the spot is a busy and noisy one in the 
summer time, with its rural trolley-cars 
thundering by and people getting off and 
on, and the birds seemed to have grown 
entirely unconscious of human affairs, and 
indifferent to what was transpiring down 
below their little aerial home. 

While their music is still new to you, 

[110] 






O 



V O 







Two Vireos and Some Friends 

you will probably mistake it for that of the 
Wren. But after a bit you will notice that 
it is considerably fuller and richer than the 
smaller bird's strain, and altogether more 
melodious — even though, like the other, it is 
very much of a monotone. 

In speaking of the Vireo's "music," 
however, we must not confound it with its 
"call" — which is simply one or two harsh, 
rasping notes that are quite distinctive and 
easily recognized. And just here it may 
be well to remind ourselves of the impor- 
tance of knowing if possible in every case 
both these methods in which all birds find 
voice, so that hearing them we may not 
multiply new species out of the imagina- 
tion, or make other mistakes by attributing 
the mere call and the real song to different 
birds. 

The two Vireos of the maple tree showed 
the same delightful trait which some other 
species have of singing while sitting on 
their nest, each hopping off now and then to 
give place to the other. And they were of 
course most easily studied while so engaged. 

[in] 



A Book on Birds 



In general color they are a dull olive 
upon the back and wings, and a beautifully 
smooth dove tint over the rest of the body. 
Their habits are very dainty — their nest 
being a marvel of exquisite woven- work; 
while — among other refined little tricks — 
they have a most delightful way of slaking 
their thirst in the morning from the dew- 
drops on the surface of a leaf. 

But let us also remember that there are 
two others in the same family it is just as 
pleasant to know — the White-eyed and the 
Red-eyed Vireos. They are all three so 
much alike that you will probably some- 
times get them mixed, as I do; unless it 
is a bright day and you are near enough to 
detect the difference of color of eye in the 
several species, which really does exist not- 
withstanding the doubts of people upon 
this point. And do not fail to look for it 
whenever you come across any one of these 
birds, no matter how often it may fail to 
disclose itself; for then, sooner or later, 
you may duplicate my own experience 
(and the rare pleasure of it), in seeing a 
[112] 



o 
H 

H 

«!? 

H 

H 




Two Vireos and Some Friends 



stray sunbeam sift through the branches 
somewhere and actually strike the brilliant 
ruby of the lovely eyes of the last named 
of the three and set them all aglow like fire. 

Nor, finally, must we forget an additional 
member of this clan — the Yellow-throated. 
He also resembles the rest except for the 
bright sulphur hue of chin and throat and 
his peculiar song of two quick notes whistled 
at intervals. 

Not more than a mile from the Warbling 
Vireos' nest I once came upon the only 
Bobolinks I ever saw in this particular 
part of the country. They appeared in 
quite a flock on several old cherry trees 
in the midst of a meadow, and were giving 
vent to all the indescribable musical noise 
and chatter for which they are famous. 

Moreover, it was early in May and they 
were arrayed in their new spring vestments 
— glistening black and white with a dull 
buff cap far down on the back of the head. 
For, be it remembered, the Bobolink, like 
some others, changes his garb with the 
seasons. And his name, too, by the way. 

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A Book on Birds 



Just before fall he looks as plain as a 
pipe-stem — in yellowish brown and gray — 
and besides this has lost his music, and 
under the nom de guerre of Reedbird — has 
become the especial delight and victim of 
sportsmen along the Delaware river and bay. 

Then, a little later, and still farther 
south, he assumes anew make-up even more 
faded, and, as the dreaded Ricebird, covers 
the country by tens of thousands and for 
a while gives the plantation owners all the 
trouble they can cope with. 

But up our way — in the rare visits he 
makes us — he is nothing more than the 
jolly, rollicking Bobolink — always hand- 
some to look at and a pleasure to hear. 

And now — as a fanciful diversion in our 
bird-questing — let us shift the scene a little 
to get a sense of the weird and mysterious. 

It still lacks a half hour of sunset; but 
up here, along this winding creek, in these 
dense, dewy thickets, rich with honeysuckle, 
the twilight has already fallen. So luxuri- 
ant indeed and tangled is the June under- 
growth that you find difficulty in making 

[114] 



Two Vireos and Some Friends 

your way and must retrace your steps here 
and there to get through. And right in the 
depths of it, where you are completely 
surrounded and beset, and the leafy shadows 
are creeping in, you hear a low, clear, 
human whistle close behind you — just one, 
uncanny note, with a certain suggestion 
of meaning in it that makes you tingle — 
like the signal of some friend or foe. 

Startled, you turn and look back, peering 
through the vines and foliage; but see noth- 
ing. Then you listen a minute, holding 
your breath. It sounds, again, but this 
time from in front, and you know now, 
from a peculiar inflection it has, that some- 
where in that darkening mass of green a 
hidden eye is watching you. The whistle 
cannot be other than that of a bird, you 
think; and yet it certainly does sound 
like some man or boy. 

Once more you hear it — directly over- 
head; and again, so close it seems at your 
very ear; and then, once more, farther 
off, to the left; and again, and again — 
from nowhere and everywhere! 

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A Book on Birds 



Thoroughly baffled, you try your best, 
but in vain, to locate the elusive sound, 
with each repetition. 

Then — just as you are giving up — you 
see a bright red figure — like a diminutive 
Mephistopheles — sitting absolutely motion- 
less on a branch scarce ten feet away. 

Of course you know him at once for 
the brilliant, but erratic Cardinal, or Vir- 
ginia Red-bird; the one who looks so like 
the warm-blooded tropics, and yet insists 
on staying right up here in the North 
through our hardest winters, making him- 
self at times, after a snowfall, glorious 
to behold, above the dazzling whiteness 
of the fields — a sort of hostage given by 
May to December for the sure return of 
spring; and whose second most distinguish- 
ing trait, I think, is that he can hide better 
and longer — making music all the time — 
than any other feathered denizen of field 
or forest. 

Now that he sees you he sits as still as 
a statue until you make a move toward 
him; whereupon he flies off, to hide again 

[116] 




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Two Vireos and Some Friends 

at a little distance, and pour forth enough 
gymnastic variation in his wonderful whistle 
to drive a boy-adept at the art to despair 
with envy; all of which, however, is simply 
an indication that you are near his nest 
and he is alarmed about it. Moreover, he 
stirs up some other sounds with his melodi- 
ous noise that are not echoes — and in a 
moment or two you have had a vision of 
the Maryland Yellow-throat, the Yellow- 
breasted Chat and the Indigo Bunting; 
these — with the Cardinal added — forming 
as rich and as rare a woodland symphony 
in color as any one may wish to look upon; 
and so brightening up the shadowy thicket 
that you emerge at length with feelings very 
different from those with which you were 
held fast in it, or threaded cautiously its 
wilding maze, but a little while before. 



[117] 



A Book on Birds 



Love Divine 

O Love Divine! — He came, and gently singing 

At earliest dawn in secret to a bird, 
Thrilled it with joy till it awoke, and winging 
Its way aloft, proclaimed Him with no word, 
Yet surely, sweetly, by the holy sign 
Of His own melody. O Love Divine! 

Then, in a little while, bent low and kneeling 

Deep in a leafy wood with dew bedight, 
He lured a wilding flower forth, unsealing 

Its tomb with living touch, and toward the light 
Turning its face, that these dull eyes of mine 
Might trace His presence too. Love Divine! 

Nor this alone: but, where angelic fingers 

Wove pearl and rose amidst the orchard trees, 
He came again — to breathe the breath that lingers, 
When Spring is at the flood, on every breeze; 
That, deaf and sightless, I might not repine, 
But still discover Him. O Love Divine! 

And then — e'en at my hearth — when day was ended, 

And in the dusk I soothed my suffering child, 
He, crowning all His tenderness, descended 
Once more, unseen, and where I sat beguiled 
The little one to sleep. " Ah — else than Thine — 
There is no heaven!" I cried: Thou Love Divine! 



[118] 




O 



PQ > 

9 « 

M I 

o <v 



GQ 



Chapter IX 

AT THE END OF JUNE 

WE have come at length in our 
impromptu excursions out among 
the birds to that deep and busy 
season when, though just as numerous as 
ever, they are very hard to find. 

One bright, warm day when the first of 
July was less than a week ahead, I sat in 
a clean, cool, mossy wood which lies along 
a cross-road on the way from my home 
to the village four miles distant that now, 
after many years, bears Audubon's name, 
and listened on a big log, about six in 
the evening, until I heard the calls or the 
singing of at least ten species, not one of 
which (wait and search and lure them as 
I would) was I able to get a glimpse of. 

Included in this number were the Blue 
Jay, the Yellow-breasted Chat, the Red- 
eyed Vireo, the Yellow-throat, the Crested 

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A Book on Birds 



Flycatcher, the Wood Pewee, the Spotted 
Sandpiper and the Yellow-billed Cuckoo, 
all of them making considerable noise and 
music, but not one of them ever in sight. 
And the same condition, in a general way, 
prevails everywhere at this time of the year. 

Of course, there are reasons for this; 
and two of them — not to mention others — 
are quite easily understood. 

First, the density of the foliage by the 
end of June conceals a bird over and over 
again, even though he is not thinking of 
it, or gives him unlimited opportunities to 
hide when he is. And the fact of the 
matter is that, as a rule these days when 
you are around, he is actually trying to hide. 

And with a wise purpose, too. Field 
and forest are full of mystery in the month 
of roses. There are gentle secrets almost 
everywhere. And those the birds know 
they are sparing no effort to keep to them- 
selves. 

It is on this account they are stealthy 
and endeavor to baffle and mislead you 
with elusive sounds. 

[120] 



At the End of June 



You are in dangerous proximity to a 
nest, perhaps, and they must draw you 
away! 

Or, it may be, only a yard or two from 
your peering eyes — that search but see 
not — is a fledgling spending his first day 
from home on a branch where the leaves 
are thickest and hardest to explore; and 
the parent birds are hoping with all their 
woodland hearts you may not discover him. 

Moreover, they will resort at times to 
art and strategy to divert you. I have been 
convinced on one or two occasions that some 
birds really become ventriloquists of a 
sort, when driven to it. Their voice will 
seem to fall from in front and from behind 
at almost the same moment, until you 
give up in despair trying to locate it. 

And others have other tricks by which 
to save their nests and their offspring 
should occasion demand. Often have I 
seen the Turtle Dove, when surprised upon 
his' nest, drop to the ground and go strug- 
gling away, in short, quick hops and broken 
flights, as if wounded, so that you may 

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follow after and try to catch him and thus 
be led afar and wide from his rough home 
of sticks, with its two white eggs. And 
he is not the only bird who goes through 
this performance, or many another, with 
the same object in view. 

So, going back to the point we started 
with, do not be disappointed in your quest- 
ing these golden hours, if you hear much 
but see little. 

And yet, after all, there will be excep- 
tions to this rule and many a bright feast 
for the eye even now. Indeed the brightest 
of all awaits you if you go far enough; 
for the Scarlet Tanager is about and I 
have always thought it is he who likes to 
sit still and be looked at and admired 
more than any bird we have. 

Nor can he fairly be blamed if he does, 
his beauty being almost beyond descrip- 
tion. All other color in the forest pales 
before his splendid, royal carmine, made 
almost luminous against the living green 
by the sharp contrast of jet black eyes 
and wings. Sometimes when the sunlight 

[122] 



At the End of June 



strikes him he seems a very burning brand, 
dropped from heaven through the tree- 
tops to make us dream of the glory of the 
God that made him, and worship just a 
moment all alone, in His fragrant, dim-lit 
temple. And, furthermore, your delight 
in the beauty of this bird will be increased 
should his mate, in her garb of faint 
green and yellow, happen to join him as 
you gaze, and heighten the picture he makes. 
You may find the Tanager any evening 
after June fifteenth, if you will, from six 
until seven, or even later, at the very next 
patch of woods beyond that which I have 
already mentioned. The oak and hickory 
trees here almost surround a little structure 
known as the Indian Creek school house — 
this, by the by, being about the most rural 
and picturesque building of its kind one 
could imagine, an ideal haunt for some new 
Rip Van Winkle. Its outlook in every 
direction is a charming one of leaves and 
branches, several great, tall forest sentinels 
standing apart from the rest right beside 
it, and affording fine and ample shelter 

[123] 



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for its pupils (it had thirteen all told, when 
I was there) and teacher. 

However, to return to the Tanager, just 
a stone's throw away! You will not need 
to go more than thirty or forty feet into 
the woods before you hear him repeating 
overhead his two sharp, unmusical notes — 
"chirp, churr! chirp, churr! chirp, churr!" 
again and again. You have frightened him 
from his nest, which is up on a horizontal 
branch somewhere; but, exceptional fellow 
that he is, he sits quite still and gives you 
plenty of chance to study him till you 
are tired. 

Or, until your attention is diverted by 
the call of the Yellow-billed Cuckoo — 
or Rainbird; for he is here, too; but, like 
the others, hard to find. He is a large, 
fine bird, as smooth and quiet in voice and 
every movement as in color, except, perhaps, 
for the loud, melancholy cry, often heard of 
a sultry afternoon, with which he is said to 
prognosticate a thunder shower. 

While you are trying in vain to locate 
him, the big, sharp, saucy note of the 

[124] 



At the End of June 



Ovenbird breaks forth close overhead. 
And here, indeed, is a problem; for not one 
time out of ten will you be able to get a 
glimpse of this fellow, despite all the reck- 
less noise he makes. 

" Teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher, 
teacher!" he gushes out once more, the 
notes increasing in rapidity, volume and 
impudence to the end, and seeming so 
close you feel you could stretch out your 
hand and touch him, if you only knew 
which way. But find him if you can — with 
his little golden crown! 

And as to his nest, it is in a bank some- 
where, with a roof over it, and is an even 
harder proposition, so don't try; or, rather, 
do not be disappointed if you try and fail. 
For only the patient, expert naturalists, 
and not all of them, achieve the high dis- 
tinction of actually discovering the nest 
of this bird. 

On my own way back from this patch 
of woods I met a pair of Tyrant Flycatchers 
(Kingbirds) still engaged in collecting out 
of the " circumambient air" their evening 

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A Book on Birds 



meal of moths and other insects from the 
vantage of a telegraph wire. These are 
the little fighters that may be seen circling 
around a clumsy Crow on the wing and 
harrying it to complete exhaustion. And 
yet, in a fair contest, they are arrant 
cowards notwithstanding. 

You can identify them by their sharp, 
quick cry in flight; the nervous, jerky 
motion of their wings; the conspicuous 
border of white, straight across the end of 
the tail feathers; and the low tuft of 
feathers, with its scarlet spot, adorning 
the head. 

Somewhere in the neighborhood also is 
their near relative — the Crested Flycatcher, 
top-knotted far more than they, and keep- 
ing an eye on his nest in a tree-hole — with 
its odd, chocolate-streaked eggs. 

And then, where the stream crosses the 
by-road, a Spotted Sandpiper sounds his 
high-keyed cry and scurries along above 
the water. The way in which his short, 
flat tail bobs up and down unceasingly, 
every time he alights upon a stone, on the 

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At the End of June 



bank or sticking above the tide, is one of 
the funniest things in nature. He seems 
to have lost his balance somewhere, away 
back at the beginning, and never to have 
been quite able to recover it since then, 
try as he will. Yet he is a bright, clean, 
handsome bird and gay of spirit, none 
the less. 

Just as his tinny note dies out in the 
distance, my approach stirs up a little 
Screech Owl, who, first giving me a wooden 
stare, as he sits straight, trim and dignified 
on the dead branch of a willow, moves off 
with slow-flapping wings, in soft, noiseless 
flight through the deepening shadows. 

And then, noting how close indeed the 
dark has settled down, silent and furtive 
as a Cedar Bird (of whom a word in another 
chapter), I myself take the hint and move 
off too — toward the highway and home. 



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The Oven-Bird 

"Teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher!" 
Was there ever such a saucy creature? — 
Boasting loud and clear, in your very ear, 
That you cannot find him, far or near! 

How he sets the forest aisles a-ringing 

With his merry notes, more noise than singing! 

And how impudent is his plain intent 

To divert the quest on which you're bent! 

Surely, now, you think, he's over yonder; 
But, next moment, as you peer and ponder, 
Quick and bright and gay as a boy at play, 
He invites you, "Look this other way!" 

Yet, don't blame him; birds have many a reason 
In the deep, mysterious summer season, 
Thus to call and hide, and to lure aside 
Those who seek and will not be denied. 

In these ferny, redolent recesses, 
Just where one least dreams of it, or guesses, 
Nestling in the ground, he, the Golden-crowned, 
Has a home 'twould grieve him were it found. 

Yes, 'twould put him to complete confusion 
Should you stumble on its sweet seclusion. 
So be kind to him — have a mind to him, 
As you tread these pathways cool and dim. 

[128] 



Chapter X 

BIRD SONGS AFTER DARK 

OUT on this broad Pennsylvania wheat- 
field, at two o'clock in the morning, 
with the yellow sheaves beneath 
and around us, and the full-orbed moon 
above — surely this is no place, no time, 
for birds ! 

Were it merry England, a Nightingale 
might come perchance and keep us com- 
pany, with his matchless voice. But here it 
seems folly to expect any winged creature 
to waken and cheer the solitude by so 
much as a sound. 

Yet, listen! That is more than mere 
sound which thrills upon the air. 

The flooding silver light from an almost 
starless sky is wonderfully clear; and the 
winding river, showing through the distant 
trees beyond the sloping hillside, glistens 
and flashes at times almost as if it were day. 

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Listen again! That, indeed, is more than 
mere sound. It is music; music sweeter 
for the silence and the far spot whence it 
is borne; music that we know! 

Of a truth it is none else than our brave 
little friend the Song Sparrow, warbling 
as he sleeps, it may be; but in the same 
happy tones which make his day-dreams 
so melodious. 

We quicken with pleasure as we hear 
him. Some doubts are already dispelled. 

We had known of course that many 
American birds, including the Owls, give 
voice at night; but we hesitated to believe 
that any of our genuine songsters actually 
sing. And here, sure enough, is one to 
begin with; and we are put to shame for 
our incredulity. 

And yet it is not he for whom we really 
came. 

"Will his melody stir the slumbers and 
the voice of another?" It is this other 
who brought us out; and he is still upper- 
most in our thoughts. Will the Thrasher, 
(the Brown Mockingbird) whom we admire 

[130] 



Bird Songs after Dark 



as much as any Briton his noble Night- 
ingale — will he add his tuneful testimony, 
as we have been told we may expect him to? 

The brooding stillness settles down again. 
A half-hour goes by. The snugly packed 
sheaves make a warm and comfortable 
bed, and we are getting drowsy. When, lo, 
behold — not the Thrasher indeed — but one 
more, almost as worthy, our " stringer 
of pearls" — the Spizella pusilla — breaks 
forth, putting Morpheus to flight! 

"True — true — true! ever true to thee, 
dear Heart!" fall his notes from a branch 
just where the trees begin; not one bright 
gem missing, but all of them lovelier for 
the moonbeams and the eager ear of night. 

And this time doubt diminishes to almost 
nothing, while expectation rises high. 
Will the Thrasher verily pour for us his 
rich libation next? 

The minutes wear on. We half nap 
awhile, and waken to hear the "Peep, peep, 
peep!" of the Sandpiper, and the fuller 
cry of the Killdeer, both exactly as they are 
during the day. 

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A Book on Birds 



Then comes another, longer period of 
somnolence, from which a Robin, off in the 
gloom somewhere, delivers us with his 
most extended strain. And later on the 
Flicker and the Grasshopper Sparrow sing. 

But that one golden throat, which so 
far surpasses all these, and which, heard in 
the darkness, we had fancied might vie 
with the Nightingale's, is still missing; 
until doubt asserts itself again, and the 
silver flood from the sky begins to seem 
poor and pale and sorrowful for lack of it. 

The "Caw, caw, caw!" of a Crow, flying 
too high overhead to be visible, sounds like 
mockery of our expectations. Then a 
noticeable chill in the atmosphere creates 
a creepy feeling; which increases as the 
Yellow-breasted Chat flings out his weird, 
uncanny notes, as if in actual derision. 

And so the night passes ; until a last long 
interval of semi-consciousness is broken by 
the clarion call of Sir Chanticleer from the 
barnyard beyond the hill to which our 
wheat-field is appurtenant; and, rising 
suddenly, somewhat bewildered, we discover 

[132] 




r-O 



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o S 

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o a; 



Hi T 

1 s 



Bird Songs after Dark 



a faint crimson glory on the eastern horizon 
and know our vigil out in the open is 
practically over, with all present prospects 
of a song in the dark from the Thrasher 
at an end. 

However, we do not feel that the exploit 
has been in vain. 

Have there not been other voices to 
satisfy our ears? And if these, then why 
indeed may we not hear also on some 
future occasion the one which has been 
conspicuous by its silence this time? 



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A Book on Birds 



The Meadow Lark 

Clear, clear — far or near, 

Bird <y the morning, call! — I hear. 
Out of the swift advancing light 
Rising brighter and more bright 
At the end of each quick flight, — 

Meadow Lark, call! — I hear. 

Call, call!— for of all 

Lures of melody, this the thrall 
Dawn, awakening in thy breast, 
Flings forth tenderly to the west, 
This, oh, this is loveliest — 

Loveliest lure of all. 

Free, free — bush nor tree 

Shut the goldening skies from thee! 
Deep in the clover-field abloom, 
Fragrant, billowy, great with room, 
Wide apart from the forest gloom, 

Thither thy nest shall be! 

There, where — all the air 
Bloweth halcyon, hale and rare! 
Up and on with the buoyant day — 
On into noon and evening gray, 
Seeking the mountains far away — 
Hale and halcyon air! 



[134] 



The Meadow Lark 



Joy, joy! — flute, hautboy, 

Pipe, or piccolo seems a toy, 
Poor and empty, with thy rich voice, 
Caroling, silver-sweet, rejoice, 
Silver-sweet, rejoice, rejoice — 

Unto th' heights of joy! 

Clear, clear — far or near, 
Bird o' the morning, call! — I hear; 
Finding with thee (out, out between 
Th' boundless blue and rippling green) 
My heaven not remote, but e'en 
Gladsomely, gently near. 



[135] 



Chapter XI 

MIDSUMMER MEMORANDA 

THE wave of silence which submerges 
bird music almost entirely in our cli- 
mate, except in rarely cool weather, 
by the end of the wheat harvest, is wont 
to throw one back more or less upon those 
earlier days when there was a call from 
every meadow and a song from every tree. 
Moreover, we are fortunate if there are 
for us in truth some such unforgotten hours 
to which we may revert at this season; 
and doubly so if we retain any clear mental 
memoranda gathered in them which may 
still be marshaled in good order and 
jotted down; as most of the very birds 
themselves seem now to disappear along 
with their music; and we should conse- 
quently, if debarred from retrospection, 
have often but a dull and lonely time of 
it indeed. 

[136] 



Midsummer Memoranda 



As for myself, I have always been able 
to retain quite enough to occupy my mind 
when necessary out of these things of the 
past, which accumulated so rapidly while 
they were transpiring that it was impos- 
sible to keep full pace with them then. 
Furthermore, this midsummer in which 
I write seems to give fuller proof of the 
fact than any of former years; a great 
throng of recollections of this sort pressing 
in upon me almost daily as never before. 
And for some reason at the present moment 
those of the charming little Acadian Fly- 
catcher are in the lead. 

However, the Acadian comes first prob- 
ably because I have found him tamest 
and most companionable of his clan. 
His kinsfolk, the Crested and the Tyrant 
Flycatchers, always treat your approach 
as an unwelcome intrusion, the voice of 
the former being marked by a tone of chill 
surprise when he sees you, while the high- 
keyed, nervous notes of the latter are full 
of actual resentment and alarm. But he 
himself, though much less in size than they, 

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A Book on Birds 



looks upon you quietly, and seems not 
at all disturbed over your presence, but 
pleased. 

Once, toward evening in a deep thicket 
redolent with the ivory-white clusters of 
the wild-cherry, he was so interested in 
the frequent short swoops he made through 
the branches close to the ground, while 
capturing gnats and flies for supper, that 
he appeared almost inclined to invite my 
co-operation with him in his efforts, nearly 
touching my head several times, or even 
alighting upon it when his victims flew 
close to me; until I think he might have 
taken them from my fingers had I tried 
to catch them for him. 

And he is not only tame with those whose 
woodland manners are correct, but also 
very beautiful of form and color. The 
dark, rich olive of his back and tail makes 
a charming foil for the wavy stripes of 
pure white upon his wings, and the delicate 
yellow of his breast. His head, which has 
only a suggestion of the crest which is so 
conspicuous in others of his family, is 

[ 138 ] 



Midsummer Memoranda 



shapely, and he is as graceful and smooth 
in every movement as a Wood Thrush, 
and just as self-contained, though much 
livelier of course. 

Next in this bright, insistent throng 
of recollections the merry, buff-capped 
Bobolink presents himself. 

He was always really a stranger to me 
outside the books until I came across him 
one peerless morning about the middle 
of May up in the Raritan river country 
of New Jersey. Since then, however, he 
has been an unfading friend. Even as I 
write I can recall him and his glorious en- 
vironment that day with vivid distinctness. 

Far out in the open, under the blue of 
heaven, where snowy cloudships sail in 
glistening splendor, the broad meadows — 
supremely luxuriant after the freshening 
rain of the night — stretch straight away 
for a mile or more to where the silver 
ribbon of the winding stream is hid by 
a fringe of darkling trees. And in every 
direction they unfold a soul-stirring vista 
of living green made luminous with gold; 

[1391 



A Book on Birds 



for north and south, and to the eastward 
where the ocean lies afar, they are arrayed 
just now in one rich covering of dande- 
lions and clover. 

Behind me, toward the west, billows 
of perfume sweep by and pass beyond, 
from an apple-orchard of a hundred trees, 
each one of which is a mass of scented 
bloom. 

And ever in the foreground, flitting 
fron* meadow to blossoms — where Wood 
Warblers are feeding — and back again, the 
Bobolink keeps his gladdest holiday of 
all the year, his last before nest-building, 
while still the cares of life have not begun, 
and he has naught to do but feed and fly 
and ease himself of the music in his soul. 

And how wild with joy he is! How 
utterly carried away with the softly-swell- 
ing tide of spring, spring, spring! He 
cannot shut off for a single moment the 
fountain of sparkling sound that leaps 
and spurts and gurgles from his breast; 
but, filled with exuberant ecstasy, lets it 
flow right on, whether he is standing, half- 

[140] 



Midsummer Memoranda 



hid, on the ground, or swaying daintily 
on a tall weed, or is perched an instant 
on a fence-rail, or even poised above you 
in mid-air, with restless, palpitating wings. 

There are not so many birds that sing 
while in flight. But the Bobolink does 
it to perfection, pouring forth his notes 
from an altitude of fifteen or twenty feet 
in such showering brilliance that you can 
almost feel and see the flash of them as 
they descend. 

As he sings and flies, and flies and sings, 
and circles about, quite agog with melodi- 
ous excitement, you get the impression 
that he is afflicted with a foolish fear that 
you are unaware of his presence, or even 
of the matchless glory of the day. And 
after a while you half feel like shouting 
a little and breaking forth into rollicking 
song yourself; or actually jumping around 
a bit — with a toss of your hat in the air, 
and several handsprings and a vault over 
the fence thrown in — just to relieve his 
apprehensions and show him you are alive 
to the situation. 

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A Book on Birds 



However, you don't do anything of the 
sort; at least not on this initial occasion; 
but simply look and listen in astonishment 
and delight, thinking how much indeed 
you missed by not getting thoroughly 
acquainted with him until so late a day in 
your ornithological career. 

And now, from amidst the same mid- 
summer flight of winged memories which 
still encircles us, suppose we permit the 
Barn Swallow to engage our attention. 

Should you ever feel upon a particularly 
vernal morning that you are advancing 
in years, and, stirred by the sunlit air, 
wonder to yourself whether any of the pure 
spontaneity and freedom of childhood still 
remain in your anatomy, let me suggest 
that you sally forth and search till you 
find a field near some farmhouse nestling 
amidst the hills — a field with nothing 
between it and the azure firmament but 
one or two white and dazzling " sky- 
mountains/ ' towering in great masses 
toward the zenith — and there try a game 
of "dodge-the-ball" with this jolly bird. 

[142] 



3 



o en 

Its ^ 

O 

CO a 



o 25 

o o 




Midsummer Memoranda 



If that test fails, your case is serious, 
indeed, and you can hardly hope that the 
deepest draughts you may drink from all 
the fountains of youth this side eternity 
will ever do you much good. 

To make the test perfect the field should 
spread out wide and beautiful upon a 
gentle slope, beyond a wooded ravine, 
faintly musical with laughing water; the 
cool west wind should be blowing lightly 
across it; there should be a wealth of 
violets thickly scattered in amongst the 
dewy grass under foot, and away over in 
the open a single tall oak, still leafless, 
should rise sharply clear in every black 
outline against the far horizon, to give per- 
spective to the scene and lift it heaven- 
ward. 

But, with these conditions around you, 
the rest is easy. 

Here he comes now! first from the hay- 
loft — exactly when you have climbed the 
round ascent sufficiently to get your vision 
on a line with the level lay of the ground 
at the top. Here he comes now! — skim- 

[143] 



A Book on Birds 



ming over the clover, straight for your 
face, his blue back glistening, his breast 
warm and ruddy, his forked tail (and 
he is the only bird in our climate that has 
a genuinely forked tail) as stiff and straight 
with the speed of his flight as the barbs 
of an arrow. Here he comes now! Quick, 
dodge! Good, you're safe! 

Yet it was not your dodge that kept 
him from hitting you, but his, when he 
was scarcely ten feet away. 

Look out! He's coming again; back 
of you this time. Quick, dodge! There! 
— he just missed your ear. But it was 
his miss once more. 

Yes, that's right! Make a swipe at 
him with your hat as he passes; but don't 
hit him — because you can't; and it's a 
waste of energy to really try; for he will 
escape you, even if it be only by the frac- 
tion of an inch. But swipe away, never- 
theless. The more of it you do, the quicker 
and oftener he will return, being as fully 
alert and alive to the game as you are, 
and enjoying it quite as thoroughly. So 

[ 144 ]; 



Midsummer Memoranda 



dodge and strike to your heart's content, 
until you have reached the fence on the 
other side of the field and are ready to 
take a rest on the top rail, and laugh at 
Mr. Swallow, as he gives you up reluctantly 
and hies him off to his brown-speckled 
eggs and nest of mud and feathers against 
the rafters over the mow. 

Who has not played the game that ever 
loved the open air? — even to three-score- 
and-ten, it may be — and who that ever 
played it has not felt when it was over that 
it did him good and made him at heart 
for a while as a child again? 

Of all the birds I knew in boyhood 
days the Cedar Waxwing seemed the most 
mysterious; and upon those rare occa- 
sions when I came across his nest in the 
dark recesses of his native tree, the find 
never failed to give me just a little of the 
creepy feeling a witch story produces when 
properly told. 

Undoubtedly the fact that he seems to 
possess no voice at all, (or, if he has any, 
neglects entirely to make it known) had 

[145] 



A Book on Birds 



something to do with this. Throughout 
my whole acquaintance with him I have 
at no time heard him utter any semblance 
of a song. Indeed, I might just as well 
have said "any semblance of a sound"; 
for in his smooth and stealthy gliding 
about from twig to twig, and tree to tree 
(his every motion furtive, yet calm and 
dignified, too) he is absolutely noiseless, 
as far as I have been able to discover. 

And then his color-scheme also adds to 
the weird impression he creates — although, 
be it said in justice to him, he is never- 
theless, after his own exceptional kind, a 
most striking and shapely fellow. It con- 
sists of several dull, unnamable shades 
of brown, the darkest on his fine topknot 
or crest (which, to be exact, is neither of 
these, but, rather, a broad though abbre- 
viated plume) and the lightest upon his 
breast and rump. 

His other colors, however, are not dull 
or quiet by any means, but most conspic- 
uous — from the bright yellow border across 
the end of his tail to the brilliant carmine 



[146 



Midsummer Memoranda 



of the horny substance (resembling red 
sealing wax) which tips the feathers that 
terminate at the middle of each wing, 
it being from this peculiar mark that he 
takes his name. Then he boasts in addition 
some striking dashes of black and white 
around the eye, along the edges of the 
wing, and upon the tail; these completing 
an array which invests him with a truly 
strange atmosphere of distinction in keep- 
ing with his habits. 

Notwithstanding his solitary disposition, 
the Cedar Bird is not at all impossible to 
find in our climate by the end of May, 
and he is well worth adding to your list 
of intimate acquaintances, his very oddity 
creating a special fascination and interest 
which you will hardly fail to feel at once. 

That loud, insolent whistling you hear 
from somewhere up in the buttonwood 
tree is the voice of the Yellow-breasted 
Chat; and at the moment, for special 
reasons, his notes are at their worst. 

Most Wood Warblers are entirely sweet 
and subdued in all their music and bird- 

[147] 



A Book on Birds 



talk. But the Maryland Yellow-throat, 
the Ovenbird, and our present specimen, 
the Chat, are pronounced exceptions to 
this rule, the last-named in particular 
being often noisy to the last degree, and 
giving vent to sounds when excited (as 
he is just now) of which he ought to be 
ashamed. Some of them are an unpleasant 
clash between the notes of the Robin and 
those of a Parrot; while others are nothing 
else than ugly, rasping, guttural expletives 
— as you will observe — and all because we 
have come too close to his nest, with its 
white and brown eggs, in this wild-rose 
bush on the edge of the swampy thicket. 

And yet, despite his unfortunate, ill- 
bred voice, the Chat is a very charming 
bird, though, of course, the old adage about 
"fine feathers" must not be entirely for- 
gotten. But, indeed, you may be the more 
apt to forget it in his case, because his 
plumage is not mere vulgar showiness, like 
the Peacock's, but is delicately beautiful, in 
its two dominant hues of olive green upon 
the back, and soft, rich yellow underneath. 

[148] 



Midsummer Memoranda 



Nor has he any other bad traits I know 
of, save those his voice gives him. He 
is devoted to his home, after he has once 
completed it for himself; and — braver than 
some others — will not desert it offhand 
merely because you and your friends, 
it may be, intrude a little on its privacy. 

This I can vouch for from personal 
experience; for the nest in the rose bush, 
to which I have referred, was not a myth, 
but a nest I knew; and though my inner 
circle of amateur ornithologists made it a 
veritable Mecca for a week or two, creat- 
ing a beaten path through the meadow- 
grass to it and all around it by their 
frequent trips, its owner, the Chat, stood 
by his little castle just the same and raised 
his brood of four right valiantly, even 
beneath their very noses. 

A very common bird-misnomer in my 
country is that of calling the whistling 
"Bob White/' or Quail, a Partridge. 

Our one and only Partridge is the 
Ruffed Grouse; or Pheasant — as many 
term him here and in the South; and even 

[1491 



A Book on Birds 



he is becoming rare in Pennsylvania, except 
in some mountain districts, where the 
drumming of his wings is still a well-known 
and highly cheerful sound, especially in 
winter. 

However, Mr. "Bob White" (Partridge, 
or no Partridge) is a jolly good fellow just 
the same; and it is a source of regret that 
from causes not fully understood he also 
should be gradually disappearing. His trick 
of starting up like a flash at your near 
approach and flying straight away with the 
rush and roar of a misdirected rocket is 
quite inspiriting. It is the very thing, in 
fact, above all others, to enliven a bird- 
quest which has lagged a little, perhaps; 
never failing to put one on the alert again 
for a while. 

And Mrs. "Bob White," in turn (be it 
not overlooked) is interesting too; and 
exceptionally so, I think, when in company 
with her newly-hatched brood. Most birds 
emerging from "the great unknown" are 
naked and blind at first, and therefore 
unattractive in appearance; but not these, 

[150] 



Midsummer Memoranda 



who run about when but a day or two old 
as wide-awake, chipper, and fluffy-clad as 
chicks of that age, feeding and drinking 
and helping themselves without assistance, 
though only a trifle bigger than a thimble. 

They consequently make about as dainty 
and delightful a spectacle as may be found 
in nature. 

Years ago (really at an altogether remote 
period in my career) I used to find that a 
few full-grown Quail insisted occasionally in 
getting into certain pyramidal wooden rab- 
bit-traps of which I then had supervision 
every winter. The statute of limitations 
having run in the matter about a dozen 
times over, both as to traps and birds, 
I have no hesitation in saying that my duty 
to release these victims was generally 
honored in the breach — friends of mine in 
those days considering quail-on-toast a 
delicacy not to be lightly disregarded. 

The big, high-sailing birds that float 
along through the upper atmosphere — with 
widely-extended, motionless wings, above 
the shimmering heat and stillness of an 

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A Book on Birds 



August afternoon, are either Turkey Buz- 
zards or Red-tailed Hawks in our latitude. 
And often it is hard to tell them apart 
under such conditions; not only their 
manner of flight being practically the same, 
but also their breadth of outspread pinions. 
A marked point of dissimilarity, however, 
for those who must identify them in the air, 
if at all, is that the Buzzards appear entirely 
dark in color underneath, while the Hawks 
are of a light grayish hue which has the 
effect of making them seem to vanish for a 
moment whenever the sun shines full against 
it. Beside this the former are longer of 
neck, and, though assuming the same pose 
when flying, proceed in a straighter course 
than the latter, who move about as a rule 
in great, sweeping circles. 

The Red-tailed Hawk, whilst not nearly 
as predatory as Cooper's Hawk, so much 
dreaded by many farmers, is nevertheless 
by no means as serene and peaceable at 
close quarters as he purports to be from afar. 

I remember well how as a boy of eight or 
nine attending a very primitive little public- 

[152] 



Midsummer Memoranda 



school up in the country I saw one drop 
like a shot from just such a smooth and 
quiet voyage, seize in his talons a fat hen 
from amongst a small flock of poultry in a 
yard adjoining our play-ground, and rise 
rapidly with it directly overhead. 

Hungry and rapacious as he was, however, 
the sound of fifty or sixty lusty young 
voices, raised in a simultaneous shout, was 
too much for him; and at a height of 
probably two hundred feet he let go his 
prey and it came flopping to earth, landing 
with something of a thud, yet none the 
worse for its sudden and unexpected excur- 
sion. 

Another vigorous bird of this same general 
family is the American Osprey, or Fish 
Hawk. He is rather handsome in appear- 
ance, being brown of wing and tail and 
white-breasted. Although really a shore- 
bird, I have seen him take fish quite a 
number of times in the Schuylkill and 
Perkiomen, and on each occasion he went 
into the water at an angle, and with a 
great splash, and came up with the wriggling 

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A Book on Birds 



victim clutched in a position parallel with 
his own body, probably because he found 
it easier to fly this way. 

The Great Blue Heron, or "Big Crane/ ' 
is a very different sort of fisherman. He is 
awkward on the wing, mounting up through 
the tall trees in a wood with his long legs 
dangling straight down below, and trailing 
them clumsily after him as he moves 
forward, when once he gets out in the open. 

Yet he is not always ungraceful by any 
means, but often distinctly dignified and 
elegant, whether standing or walking, or 
even while engaged in his ordinary pisca- 
torial diversions. He goes into the water 
only to his knees, and most deliberately, and 
uses his long yellow bill with considerable 
art. A full sized bird of this species will 
sometimes measure nearly four feet in 
height; more than half this dimension, 
however, being of course mere neck and 
legs. 

In his case it is quite easy to understand 
why walking is a better method of locomo- 
tion than hopping, which would probably 

[154] 



Midsummer Memoranda 



be about as difficult for him as for a young- 
ster on stilts. But with many other 
aquatic and semi-aquatic birds, all of whom 
walk, the reason for it is not one whit 
more plain than with the land-birds who 
do so, like the Quail, Blackbird, Golden- 
crowned Thrush and Meadow Lark. 

My general observations as summer 
advances toward a close, incline me to 
the opinion that birds get more real fun 
out of life well on in August than at any 
other time of the year. 

Having finally disposed of the thousand 
and one cares of rearing a brood and train- 
ing it to fly, they seem to relegate the 
matter of music largely to the locusts, 
that they may give themselves to pure 
frolic with absolute abandon. 

It is evidently their true vacation time, 
just as with most men and women; and 
with one accord they all appear disposed 
to use every minute of it to the very best 
advantage. 

And how perfectly fitted for play they 
are, indeed! I have watched squirrels 

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A Book on Birds 



chasing each other merrily from limb to 
limb and tree to tree in the deep woods 
and found it delightful; but a pair of 
wings (to my mind) must make mere sport 
ideal. 

I find that many of the smaller species 
are already going about in flocks. In 
fact the fun they have could scarcely be 
quite so general or so jolly except for this. 
Some games no doubt must be played with 
only one or two — on the wing as elsewhere; 
but nature shows a preference, at least 
just at this season among birds, for the 
more generous sort. 

Companies of Chipping Sparrows, brown- 
capped as ever and quite unchanged in 
plumage either by rain or sunshine since 
April, may be seen by almost every road- 
side—each group numbering perhaps twenty- 
five or more. 

They prove that a Quaker garb does 
not always indicate a lack of sprightli- 
ness of spirit by any means; nor an empty 
nest, a broken heart. They are as lively 
and sociable as crickets, despite their plain 

[ 156 ] 



Midsummer Memoranda 



clothes; and their deserted homes (woven 
of dry grasses on the outside and horse- 
hair within and just as neat as ever) do 
not disconcert them in the least, though 
they may be easily discerned in the larger 
bushes or the lower branches of small 
trees. 

One of the special signs of the year 
is that Goldfinches and Indigo Bunt- 
ings are evidently increasing in number 
in my locality, a circumstance rendered 
very pleasant by the fact that both these 
little birds are of brilliant plumage and sing 
a great deal, even on days when almost 
all the others are silent. Their music 
will become familiar when once you notice, 
as I have hereinbefore hinted, that the 
Indigo Bunting's strain is simply the Gold- 
finch's rattled off in double-quick time. 
I hear him doing it this moment as I 
write — like a boy with a piece of cake, 
hurrying as hard as he can to get through 
with what he has in hand, that he may 
instantly begin all over again on a new 
effort. 

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Notwithstanding his impetuousness, how- 
ever, he is certainly a beauty; and I like 
him none the less for the way in which he 
is beginning to come right into my town 
itself with increasing familiarity almost 
everywhere. 

I recently met with more of these birds in 
one place than I ever before saw in a single 
afternoon. It was immediately following 
a severe thunderstorm which caught my 
car and held it up for a half hour near 
the top of Skippack hill. 

The approach of this storm — seen from 
this eminence, with its angry, low-lying 
clouds rent by great flashes of lightning 
and its dense sheets of driving rain — was 
a most magnificent and awe-inspiring spec- 
tacle; and the down-pour when it reached 
us was tremendous while it lasted, flood- 
ing all the roads and turning every rut into 
a rivulet. 

But in a short half-hour the sun came 
out more brightly than ever; and by the 
time I arrived at Tanglewood lane, some 
two miles farther on (a rendezvous which 

[158] 



Midsummer Memoranda 



I have already described), the birds had 
come out too — especially my iridescent 
Indigo friends just mentioned. 

As I entered our delightful by-way once 
again — more secluded, more fragrant, more 
woodsy than ever, I espied them in every 
direction. Countless rain-drops sparkled 
on all the vines and bushes and trees 
around and above me (for I found the road 
almost completely overarched now from 
end to end by wild grape and cherry — 
the branches of the latter laden with 
ripened clusters) ; and this glittering splen- 
dor, coupled with a hundred melodies of 
running water from both sides, seemed to 
fill the singers with great joy 

They warbled incessantly and tumul- 
tously, and soon started many others 
a-going — including even two big cracked- 
voiced Blue Jays, who hurried right across 
my path in their gayest plumage with a 
young one trailing on behind; and then, 
an anything but cracked-voiced Brown 
Thrasher, who wouldn't let me see him, 
yet sang his sweetest just the same. A 

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A Book on Birds 



Cardinal also whistled for me (this is a 
favorite haunt of his), and by the time I 
reached the Perkiomen I had heard or 
seen many others, all apparently glad as 
I was for the cooling and refreshing of the 
rain. 



[160] 



Five Mile Run 



Five Mile Run 

(The Stony Creek) 

Dear little man — do you mind the brook 

Called "Five Mile Run," and the route we took 

To reach it by that last small street 

Where the sky and the old town seemed to meet? 

And how glad we were, little man — do you mind? — 

To leave the noise and the heat behind, 

And feel the houses were out of sight 

And we needn't be back again till night! 

How we stopped to hark, where the willows grew, 

For its first, faint music stealing through? — 

That limpid stream, with its rippling song, 

That laughed with joy, as we came along, 

Through bush and bramble, by vine and tree, 

Lured by the wilding melody! 

How we kept together, and, crouching low, 

Caught deep, bright glimpses of its flow 

Down, down through a dim and leafy maze, 

All woven with branches overhead, 

That closed at length on its silver thread 

And set a bound to our eager gaze? — 

Yet not to our feet which followed still, 

Sure to find again our merry rill! 

And then, do you mind — dear little man, 

That break in the woods where the water ran 

Right into the open for half a mile, 

To go to sleep in the sun a while? 



11 



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A Book on Birds 



How we loved those fields, so broad and fair, 

With the blue above, and the Lark's clear call, 

And the big, white clouds high over all, 

And the fragrant, breezy, golden air! 

And then — that place on its winding way, 

Where the water spread to a little bay 

On which the ducks kept holiday! — 

Dear little man — do you mind that too? 

Ah me, ah me, if I only knew! 

For, behold, this very afternoon 

Our brook is singing its old sweet tune; 

And, lo, as I seek it, lone and sad, 

I remember that woodland call we had, 

And, hungry to hear you, fain would try 

To lift it again through the trees to the sky. 

Yet I will not doubt — I will not fear! 

For at times in the stillness you seem quite near; 

And your face is always so full of joy 

That I think, with a thrill — my own dear boy — 

You perhaps have discovered where you have gone 

Some stream just as lovely as "Five Mile Run"! 



[162 



Chapter XII 

BIRDS ON THE WING 

THE migration of birds, northward and 
back again, spring and autumn, 
across countries of the temperate 
zone, is one of the deep and fascinating 
mysteries of nature. 

First of all, the fact that many species 
make these semi-annual voyages of theirs 
through the upper air entirely during the 
silent watches of the night, sometimes 
traveling perhaps as much as five hundred 
miles through the darkness in one flight 
from sundown to sunrise, is in itself both 
surprising and wonderful. 

They are probably passing by the tens 
of thousands as I write (October tenth) 
and have been since the middle or latter 
part of September, every time I have given 
myself to sleep; and, save for an occa- 
sional " peep-peep-peep/ ' heard faintly from 

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A Book on Birds 



above, somewhere between me and the 
stars, they sweep onward in absolute 
silence amidst the encircling gloom. 

And then — most strange in this whole 
matter — the ones that choose the night 
without exception for the journey are the 
very smallest in size and those most 
delicately formed — the beautiful little Wood 
Warblers, many varieties of which may be 
found in large numbers almost any sunlit 
morning just now, in the immediate vicinity 
of my own country town, or even in the 
branches that overhang its very streets. 

For be it remembered — though most 
birds of passage do fly all night — they cry 
a halt with each morning as it dawns, that 
they may rest and feed in turn all day. 

Twenty of the species known as the Blue- 
winged Warbler were counted by me in one 
big buttonwood tree a mile or so away 
one morning — regaling themselves, with 
alert eyes and incessant hopping from twig 
to twig, upon some insect they seemed to 
find in this sort of tree alone; for although 
some were met with on each one of a dozen 

[164] 




Female Kentucky Warbler 

(See page 164) 



Birds on the Wing 



other trees of the same kind near by, 
none were visible anywhere else. 

And how hard it was to detect their 
presence even with a good spy-glass to 
help! Unless I had been looking for them 
just in that neighborhood — having gained 
some knowledge of their habits in former 
years — they must certainly have gone 
undiscovered. One little, unmusical chirp 
gave absolute assurance indeed of their 
nearness amidst the autumnal silence; but, 
nevertheless, it took sharp and patient 
searching of the foliage after that to find 
them out. 

And this with good reason, too. The 
God that fashioned the Blue-winged Warb- 
ler knew quite well that in its long, laborious 
flight straight as an arrow to the southland 
guided by the instinct which He gave, it 
must needs look to these very buttonwood 
trees in the morning for sustenance; so 
He arrayed it in color like unto the colors 
of the trees themselves, that it might rest 
undiscovered and in peace, and go unmo- 
lested as it fed. Wherefore its upper 

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A Book on Birds 



breast is rich yellow and its back green, 
like the tints of the frost-touched leaves; 
its undercoverts are of that indefinable 
hue of gray (like the shadow of an emerald) 
which marks so strikingly the branches and 
trunk of a buttonwood tree where the outer 
bark has peeled off; whilst its wings are 
made to match the blue and white of the 
cloud-flecked sky showing high above, 
through the foliage. 

So baffling are these harmonies of color, 
not only with this species, but many others 
of entirely different tints (adapted also to 
the trees frequented by them) that these 
charming sojourners, even when they are 
with us in very large numbers, are as a 
matter of fact, seen by so few people that 
in a general way they are practically 
unknown. When they are pointed out the 
first time to an untrained observer he is 
nearly always incredulous for a while — 
declaring he can discern nothing overhead 
but the maze of branches and twinkling 
leaves. However, let him be but patient 
enough to fix just one winged beauty with 

[166] 



Birds on the Wing 



his gaze — and others will be sure to reveal 
themselves quickly thereafter, to convince 
him beyond a doubt; for they rarely mi- 
grate save in groups. 

There can be no question that a prime 
reason for their traveling only at night 
is the remarkable length of time it takes 
them to feed. The same birds may be 
observed engaged at this quite important 
occupation right through an entire day, 
and just as busily too at dusk as at dawn — 
with apparently no time for flight, even 
were they inclined to it; all of which indi- 
cates that either their appetites are rela- 
tively prodigious, or that the food they 
feed on is infinitesimally dainty. 

Another explanation for the migration 
of these smaller birds by night is that the 
darkness keeps them safe from attack by 
hawks, that could take them with ease 
on the wing were they above the trees in 
daylight, but find it impossible to get at 
them, or even discover their presence as 
long as they stick close to the friendly 
cover of bush or branch. 

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A Book on Birds 



A most interesting exception, however, to 
this rule of night-migration which prevails 
among so many is found in the case of the 
White-breasted, or Tree, Swallows, who 
invariably travel only from sunrise to sun- 
set. They also start on their annual trips 
southward earlier than most of the others, 
often gathering in great flocks along the 
seashore by the middle of August and 
beginning their flight soon after. When 
once they are all marshaled and ready to 
proceed their numbers are simply astound- 
ing. A friend of the writer once saw tens 
of thousands of them gathered together of a 
September evening upon a stretch of beach 
near Surf City, New Jersey. They covered 
the sand thickly in every direction for sev- 
eral acres, like soldiers in serried ranks, all 
facing a stiff wind which was blowing from 
the northeast at the time, and he first 
thought them Chimney Swifts; but this was 
only because their backs were toward him 
at the moment, their pure white breast- 
feathers — snowy and spotless from chin to 
tail — showing a little later and fixing their 

[168] 



Birds on the Wing 



identity clearly; not to speak of the dis- 
tinctively marvelous array in which he 
found them. 

Of course, very many larger birds also 
migrate at night in addition to the smaller 
species. In the fall they have been found 
to move in three great flights, the first 
beginning about the middle of September 
and comprising those most sensitive to the 
chilly descent of winter from the north; 
and the last not taking place until late in 
November, when the hardy ducks and geese 
make the trip. It is said that the great 
mass of migratory birds this side of the 
Mississippi come east and follow the Atlan- 
tic coast line as they journey, most of 
them going down through a belt within a 
hundred miles of it. They keep at an 
altitude of probably three to five hundred 
feet in flying; and sometimes, if there be 
no moon, or the night be stormy, they meet 
with sad disaster by the way. 

If you would know more upon this last 
point look up the keeper of the great arc 
lights at the famous William Penn tower 

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A Book on Birds 



of the City Hall, in Philadelphia. You will 
find him in a well-appointed office of his 
own away down amidst the mighty founda- 
tions, and he will tell you a most pathetic 
tale, running over a long period, of how his 
lofty circle of flaming lamps has wrought 
ruin to the birds of passage every year. 

His men have found as many as one hun- 
dred and fifty-four dead or dying upon the 
pavement below of a single morning; and 
the total, since he has kept a record of 
them, has run up into the thousands, 
including about eighty different varieties, 
and over twenty kinds of Wood Warblers 
alone. 

Moving through the air at a great speed 
even at night — as most birds do, some going 
as fast as a hundred miles an hour — the 
sudden blaze of light across their path at 
the tower blinds them so that they fail to 
see the grim and solid structure in the 
midst and are dashed against it. Most of 
them are killed outright, either by the 
force of collision or the fall to the ground 
in their stunned condition from so great 

[1701 



Birds on the Wing 



a height. Some few, however, survive 
under the tender care of the keeper or his 
men — but only a pitiable few indeed. 

The collection of stuffed birds and bird 
skins at the Academy of Natural Sciences 
in that city has had many additions from 
the wayfarers that perish in this manner — ■ 
some very rare species being among them; 
and the tower keeper himself will show you 
quite a number of valuable specimens of his 
own, gathered from the same sad harvest, 
all finely mounted — the tiny and exquisitely 
brilliant Redstart and Parula Warbler and 
the Ruby-crowned and Golden-crowned 
Kinglets being among the number. 

This same thing of course occurs to a 
greater or less extent also at all high light- 
houses on the coast. A friend who went 
down to the Statue of Liberty in New York 
harbor about nine o' clock one morning 
several years ago found four Baltimore 
Orioles lying dead at his feet as he stepped 
out upon the observation platform at the 
top. And similar stories come from other 
places. 

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A Book on Birds 



The aggregate number killed nevertheless 
will appear comparatively insignificant when 
one remembers how small a space all these 
obstacles together must occupy in the 
broad path of a hundred miles or so covered 
by these winged itinerants of the night, 
and how vast the multitude of them that 
pass on unscathed must therefore be. 

" Peep-peep-peep !" I hear a lone and 
plaintive note or two even now through 
my open window as I drop off to slumber; 
and listening with a quick thrill of sympathy 
I wish each little pilgrim (though he leave 
the fields I love quite silent till the spring) 
Godspeed upon his way. ' 



[1721 



"I Travel Light" 



"I Travel Light" 

I travel light — that I may bear 

The heat and burden of the day 
More buoyantly, and better share 

With others by the way 
What strength is mine, untaxed by things 

That heap the shoulders, and harass 
The hands that would be free as wings 

With healing, as I pass. 
I travel light — not weighted down 

With heavy harnessings of pride, 
And leaden love of vain renown 

And lust of gold beside; 
But trig and trim from foot to crown, 

With swift reliance for my blade, 
I fare me on from town to town, 

Alert and unafraid. — 
I travel light! 

I travel light — that I may get 

The further on this pilgrimage 
Of mine amidst a throng, nor let 

It all my time engage; 
But gain an hour — now and then. 

For sweet excursions, far and wide 
From th' loud multitude of men 

And traffic's weary tide, 



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A Book on Birds 



In helping of some heart more frail, 

Or bowed beneath a deadlier blow 
Than I have known — and fain to fail 

For bitterness of woe — 
Out, out to where the country yields 

A calm surcease from toil and grief, 
And all the fair and fragrant fields 

Breathe rest and deep relief. — 
I travel light! 

I travel light — that I may keep, 

Unhelmeted, my head on high 
Toward the great hills of heav'n, where leap, 

Eternal, to the sky, 
Those upper fountain-springs of life, 

Whose freshening waters fall below, 
As dew, on pilgrims faint with strife, 

To cheer them as they go 
With an uplifting sense — and sure, 

Of triumph even in defeat. 
I travel light — who would endure 

Must bear (for death is fleet) 
Not weapons that but sap his strength 

(Death-given, to betray his trust) — 
But arms that in the end at length 

Shall turn them not to dust. — 
I travel light! 



[174 



Chapter XIII 

DICK 

HE was only a Yellow-bird. And not 
a paragon of his kind at that; 
but dull of color and even un- 
gainly in appearance by reason of a droop 
in one wing, caused through some hurt 
before he found our fireside. 

And yet he made himself altogether 
lovable by seeming to discover directly 
a beautiful mission amongst us. 

Coming into a home enshadowed by 
the thought of a vacant chair not far 
away, around which the solemn silences of 
autumn were deepening, he behaved at 
once as though he knew all, and was de- 
termined to brighten things, if possible, to 
the best of his brave little heart. 

And the measure of his success in this was 
wonderful. 

We were half unconscious of it for a while, 

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A Book on Birds 



delightful as we found him; he was so subtle 
and exquisitely delicate in his methods. 

But before long we awoke to a realization 
that he was illumining the season and our 
souls with the renascent gladness of an 
April sunbeam. 

To begin with, he was the very quintes- 
sence of music; — music of the rare sort; 
not loud and noisy, like that of some of his 
folk; but sweet and low, soft and appealing 
—like the faint call of a brook from moss and 
fern through the forest, or the last echo 
of an evening bell in a distant valley beyond 
the hills; — music that drew you ever so 
gently from soul-ensnaring dreams at dawn, 
and lulled you back to them at night. 

Sometimes it bubbled with the quiet 
laughter of joy for you — sometimes with 
the lighter and scarce audible laughter 
of affection; but always for you, always for 
you, — as if with every note he were thinking 
of your sorrow and striving that the dark- 
ness might never fall too heavily, nor the 
bleak winds quite pierce to the secret of 
your being. 

[176] 



Dick 

And he — only a bit of a Yellow-bird you 
could hold in the hollow of your hand! 

Small wonder is it that the dwarf Cedar 
from the glen with its frozen fountain — 
the Cedar that keeps sturdy vigil all alone 
in the snow out front — looks very stern 
and grave this relentless afternoon because 
of the tiny dead thing we have just hidden 
in the brown earth at its feet! — small 
wonder is it! For the dwarf Cedar was 
kin to Yellow-bird, and stood near enough 
the door to know of his doings within. 

And, ah me, how charming they all were! 

When he wearied of singing he would 
call — wistfully, if you failed to hear; mer- 
rily, when you came. 

And such fluttering followed! — such de- 
light! — such nestling and withdrawal! — 
such kissing of the lips, dainty as a snow- 
flake on a rose! — such earnest scanning of 
the face and peering into the eyes, and 
chirping, and caressing and devotion! 

Ah me, Yellow-bird! — was all this first 
in the Father heart that made you, to teach 
us how to love? 

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And then, the even round of existence 
you led! The eating and the drinking 
and the bath; and the contented snuggling 
of the drowsy head under the wing for 
slumber in the dusk at close of day! 

Ah me, Yellow-bird! — was this, this also, 
first in the Father heart that made you, 
to teach us how to live? 

And then, finally, the brave front you 
showed at the end; with Thanksgiving 
day past; and Christmas; and even New 
Year's (when you circled radiant about the 
happy room, from one dear hand to 
another); with all these past, and death 
gripping at your slender throat; the brave, 
brave front you showed at the end! — till 
the dauntless eyes grew dim, and the 
saucy crest drooped down, and after a 
little there was nothing that remained but 
an embodied silence in feathery gold! 

Ah me, Yellow-bird! — was all this too 
— even this, first in the Father heart that 
made you, to teach us how to die? 

0, Yellow-bird, your coming and your 
going seem less in the stillness than these 

[178] 



To Persephone Afar 



brief lines that tell of you ! Yet they were 
not in vain! The pallid, silvery daylight of 
the "weariest month of the year" has some- 
thing in it this February we never felt 
before; something of earth and heaven as 
indefinably sweet as the " shine of the soul 
of a seraph from the face of a passer-by." 



To Persephone Afar 

Angel of the lengthening days, 

Beautiful with bloom, 
To this bleak domain of winter 

Hasten through the gloom! 

And with bird, and bud, and blossom 

Following in your train, 
Down upon its frozen fountains 

Rain, rain, rain! 

Rain your showers of love abundant, 

Rain your floods of song; 
Rain, oh, rain your joy resistless, 

Till earth's captive throng, 

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A Book on Birds 



Held awhile in icy thraldom, 

Quicken to the sound; 
Wake, arise, and — laughing gently, 

Leave the bonds that bound. 

Hark, I hear across the distance 

Even now your wings, 
Beating glad the empyrean 

Where the South-wind sings! 

And at times the evening air 
Seemeth strangely bright, 

As with some mirage, reflecting 
Your imperial flight. 

While a thrill of deep expectance 

Stirs the silent waste: 
Angel of the lengthening days, 

Haste, haste, haste! 



[180] 



Chapter XIV 

IN WINTER 

THROUGHOUT this northern clime of 
ours, winter would seem indeed an 
entirely unpropitious time for the 
study of life in nature. 

And yet those to whom the tender "call 
of the wild" comes seductively at every 
season have found to their joy that field 
and forest are never altogether desolate, 
even in the bleakest weather, or amidst the 
heaviest ice and snow. 

For, in spite of these, earth still remains 
bound to summer by many a golden 
link — each as subtle and lovely as the silken 
skein that kept Theseus in touch with 
Ariadne while he braved the black labyrinth 
of the Minotaur; and each but the more 
delightful when difficult to find. 

It is probably true that the tracing of 
these hidden and elusive ties in winter is 
never easy. 

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And it is particularly hard, perhaps, 
when we look to the birds for them. 

Yet they do exist among the birds also — 
as well as trees and plants and flowers; 
and when once discovered they convince 
us that in the great array of tender thoughts 
from heaven above which make nature 
precious to the soul, here verily is revealed 
the tenderest of all. 

How many of us, for example, have quick- 
ened to the meaning of it, when we first 
learned that the little American Gold- 
finch, sunbeam of the tropics that he is! — 
exquisitely fragile and delicate, remains 
right at our doors through all the bitter 
cold, when ten thousand others, sturdier 
than he, have fled? 

By the middle of February his bright 
garb of yellow has turned completely gray 
because of all he has endured; and yet he 
holds his ground (his voice quite gone, but 
his merry flight just as merry as ever) until 
April showers shall have brought May 
flowers once again, and with the flowers 
all his vanished wealth of gold. 

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In Winter 



And the Goldfinch is only one — though 
in truth the most notable because he is 
so frail — of a fine and courageous company, 
all of whom remain, it seems, as cheery 
reminders from the sky that summer 
has not gone to stay, but is merely off on 
a visit for a while. 

It is these birds that are always with 
us — these summer birds that make them- 
selves our winter birds too — faithful in 
foul weather as well as fair — in time of 
hardship and privation, as well as sunny 
hours of ease — it is these that appeal to 
us most. 

And there are two more in this class 
that merit almost equal distinction; first, 
the well-known Song Sparrow; and second, 
the Cardinal, or Virginia Redbird, whose 
flaming color on a snow-clad tree or hedge 
is a splendid sight, that must be seen to 
be fully appreciated. Several of these 
brilliant aliens from the South that so 
strangely forget their natural environment, 
appeared one February upon the pine trees 
of a large estate not far from my home — 

[1831 



A Book on Birds 



whistling away as though it were the middle 
of July. And I have seen others at more 
distant points — once as many as five or 
six in a single flock. 

As for the Song Sparrow, he is often in 
evidence here and there and everywhere 
during the winter. The while his voice is 
gone he keeps in absolute seclusion. But 
two or three warm days are sufficient to 
thaw him out and bring it back in pretty 
good shape; and just the moment this 
happens, he loses no time in coming from 
his hiding-places and making it known. 

One of this species has been doing this 
for several seasons on a vacant lot nearby 
my house, using the same wild-cherry tree 
on each succeeding occasion for his delight- 
ful vocal preludes to spring. 

And may he continue the charming habit 
in other years to come — sturdiest, bravest 
singer of the fields! 

Others of these — our own summer birds 
that never go away through the winter, 
are the well-known English Sparrow, the 
Crow, the Quail, the Downy Woodpecker, 

[184] 



In Winter 



and the hawks — the Sparrow Hawk show- 
ing himself perhaps most frequently of his 
family. 

And this last bird, by the way, is some- 
times as grossly misrepresented as any that 
flies. Instead of making Sparrows his daily 
prey and sustenance, as he is reputed to 
do, he turns his attention to them only on 
those rare occasions when he is absolutely 
driven to it in sheer desperation for lack 
of all other food, and is generally a quite 
innocent and harmless sort of fellow. In 
summer he subsists chiefly on grasshoppers 
and other insects, and field mice, in captur- 
ing which he often displays powers of 
vision that are marvelous — sometimes pois- 
ing as high as three hundred feet in the air 
over a field of grass or clover, and then 
dropping like a bullet, with unerring aim, 
straight down upon the mouse he is after, 
in the tangled growth below. 

The little Downy Woodpecker is alto- 
gether interesting and attractive. Further- 
more he can be found almost everywhere 
and in the very roughest kinds of weather. 

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A Book on Birds 



Indeed he seems just built to brave the 
elements — with his chunky, well-knit body, 
big, comfortable wings, and thick coat of 
feathers. Even without all these, however, 
the amount of exercise he gets would of 
itself keep him warm; for he is the 
busiest and most energetic feeder in the 
woods, and during the winter seems to 
be eating simply all the time, working 
away incessantly on tree trunks and 
branches, with his tireless, red-tagged 
hammer-head, at the rate of about fifty 
pecks a minute. 

His color scheme, though only black and 
white, saving the little patch of red just 
mentioned, is nevertheless brilliant because 
of its sharp contrasts — the broad, trans- 
verse bars on the wings being especially 
conspicuous and giving him a military air. 

As I take leave of him here, and the 
others of this class who have long played 
chief part in brightening things for me in 
the open air while frost and snow prevail, 
I am reminded that there are a few more 
who, although not quite so sturdy and faith- 

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In Winter 



ful, nevertheless keep right close to the 
southern border-lines of my own country, 
and are indeed never so far away but that 
they are able to take quick advantage of 
every mild spell of any length at all for a 
stealthy excursion northward, even to my 
very door. 

Included in this number are the Meadow 
Lark, Flicker, Kingfisher, the big, sweet- 
voiced Carolina Wren, and, as a matter of 
course, the Robin. 

And now for the other class of birds 
wintering in our middle-Atlantic zone — 
those that spend their summers to the 
north of us, and are therefore not our 
own, but merely visitants during the cold 
weather. 

Included in it are the ubiquitous Snow 
Bunting and the solitary Winter Wren. 

I find these two together by going to a 
woods up along the Schuylkill, just this 
side of that same Indian Creek I have 
mentioned several times in these pages. 

It is a picturesque place even in the 
bleak, declining days of February. 

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A Book on Birds 



The two men ahead, who look for all 
the world like trappers of a century ago 
and are threshing the likely-looking places 
"for a 'possum," in listless, half -frozen 
style, declare, in response to my query, 
that the brook of sparkling water which 
comes winding down through the trees 
over a half-dozen snowy cascades, "never 
had no name" — English which I once 
thought deplorable from a "newly-rich" 
lady at a reception, but which sounds 
all right out here. 

The ice being broken (and the figure 
was never more appropriate than on this 
frosty afternoon), I switch off from the 
unchristened brook to the subject of birds, 
and find in a moment that the woods- 
men know the Winter Wren and his 
haunts and habits quite well. "He hides 
in fence holes, and stumps, and logs," 
they say; "and under the banks along 
the water," I add, "where the half-exposed 
roots of trees form an overhanging 
shelter." 

But just here you discontinue the dis- 

[188] 



In Winter 



cussion, for the bird himself flits by. He 
is very much like the House Wren in 
appearance — except that his short tail is 
even more than perpendicular, actually 
pointing toward his head. He don't seem 
"a scrap worried" over the low temper- 
ature, but is lively and active as a cricket 
in June. In seasonable weather he is a 
sweet singer — though just at this time of the 
year his voice has dwindled to the faintest 
echo of a chirp. 

As he disappears and I proceed — I notice 
that others before me have followed the 
path I take; for the smooth, silvery bark 
of the beech trees on every side is covered 
with initials by the score. 

In a minute or two the thin, rapid, 
warbling note of the Snowbird rises here 
and there in front of me — and then the 
singers themselves start up and forward, 
one at a time, right and left, to the number 
of twenty-five or more, their broad, white, 
lateral tail-feathers and bright buff beaks 
very prominent in the solid dark slate 
color of wings and back and head. 

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A Book on Birds 



Snowbirds in our climate always move 
about a great deal and usually in flocks, 
and are therefore easy to find and study. 

And upon some other occasions I have 
seen them in even larger number and more 
lively mood than I find them to-day. 

Once, indeed, with a northeast wind 
blowing and a snow storm imminent I came 
across probably a hundred of them in some- 
thing of the same wild exuberance of spirit 
which marks a small boy when the first 
winter flakes descend. Instead of hunting 
for cover they were all in a mad frolic of 
aimless flight most of the time, circling 
after each other around and around in every 
conceivable curve, and flirting their wings 
as they alighted or started off again — the 
glistening tail feathers just referred to 
seeming like quick little flashes of light in the 
performance. It was from these, while 
perching here and there for an instant, that 
I learned a new strain of three or four notes 
with a clear metallic quality, like the sound 
produced by striking a small bar of iron 
lightly with a hammer. 

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In Winter 



And it was also on this same expedition, 
if I recall correctly, that I was first able to 
differentiate the music of the Tree Sparrow 
(another winter visitant) from that of the 
others of his family, two or three of this 
species repeating their song for me, with its 
two opening couplets, until I had succeeded 
in fixing it definitely to my entire satisfac- 
tion; yet not with the result of lessening 
my love for another strain — his cousin's 
cadenza, the bright and joyous one-two- 
three-count-the-rest-if-you-can melody of 
the Song Sparrow. 

These few — home-birds and migrants — 
with the rarely seen Purple Finch; the 
little Brown Creeper, so hard to find 
because he blends so wonderfully with the 
bark of the tree to which he clings (being 
the best example within my knowledge of 
what is called " protective coloration''); 
the Golden-crowned Kinglet; a few Owls, 
and the merry, black-capped Chickadees,— 
these, and perhaps one or two others, con- 
stitute the full array of our winter birds; 
not much of a showing, I grant you, and 

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A Book on Birds 



yet quite sufficient to make God's open air 
tenderly suggestive on many a frosty after- 
noon from December to middle March. 

But really the interval of empty days 
of absence in field and forest has had very 
narrow limits during the winter in which 
I write. 

Indeed, it was probably never before so 
brief. Even the summer birds — the Robin, 
the Blackbird, Meadow Lark, Golden- 
winged Woodpecker, Killdeer, Bluebird 
and others, remained, many of them, almost 
until Christmas, and reappeared early in 
February; so that they were at no time 
very far away. 

For nearly a month past, on sunlit 
mornings, the note of the Bluebird — the 
bird "with the earth tinge on his breast 
and the sky tinge on his back," has fallen 
mysteriously as I passed along the road, 
"like a drop of rain when no cloud is vis- 
ible"; and during quite as long a time the 
spurting, gurgling strains of the Blackbird 
— who has real music in his voice only in 
earliest spring-time — have filled the tops 

[192] 



Qq 



3- o 




In Winter 



of the pine trees. The vernal iridescence, 
which appears like a reflection of the light 
of April from afar upon his ebony feathers, 
already flashes its color as he flies; and the 
hope of better, brighter days in store 
seems nearer fruition than it ever was 
before while the year was still so young. 



13 



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A Book on Birds 



To A Goldfinch 

(Perched on a Thistle Weed above the Snow) 

Little Yellow-bird, delaying 

Bravely in a blighted land; 
Left alone, but still obeying 

Summer's sorrowful command; 
She hath gone, but thou art token 

Of her love, and wilt remain 
Till, earth's icy thraldom broken, 

She shall come to us again. 

Winds may rail against thy gladness, 

Fain to drive thee far away; 
Winter hem thee in with sadness 

Till thy gold be turned to gray; 
All their hardship doth but make thee 

Dearer than thou wast before, 
And as field and sky forsake thee 

We but cherish thee th' more. 

Thine unfaltering devotion, 

(Sweet remembrancer, and true!) 
Kindleth a divine emotion 

Making us courageous too; 
And, upon our spirits stealing, 

Cometh strength to do and dare; — 
Little Yellow-bird revealing 

Springtime in the frozen air! 



[194] 



Chapter XV 

FIELD KEY 

THE following list has been prepared 
as a special help and guide (ready at 
hand and as condensed as possible) 
for the use of readers of the foregoing pages. 

It includes all those birds in the territory 
covered by this volume which the average 
amateur may look for with a well-grounded 
expectation of seeing within a reasonable 
period of time; but no others. And the 
distinctive purpose running through it is to 
characterize each species, not in a scientific 
way, but by its easiest, surest, and most 
obvious and apprehensible mark or marks 
(whether of color, flight, song, or some pecu- 
liar habit) for open-air identification by 
those who are not experts and never 
expect to be. 

Within these limitations it is believed 
it is both accurate and informing, and will 
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A Book on Birds 



be found to contain practical clues to every 
new specimen which the ordinary observer 
is likely to meet with throughout this in- 
land district of country. 

The descriptive data of the entire list 
are those of the male bird only, full-grown, 
and also in his best plumage, which is 
generally in the spring. 

The one unspecified dimension given 
is length of body from the end of the beak 
or bill to the tip of the longest tail-feather. 
It may be satisfactorily approximated off- 
hand in each case by a beginner by com- 
paring it with that of the Robin (our best- 
known bird), which is ten inches. 

No attempt at ornithological designation 
has been made in the key, other than that 
necessary to arrange the species in their 
proper order by families; and the author 
has even sought to lend to these fragmentary 
portions of the general nomenclature (with 
its odd Greek and Latin and many fanciful 
ideas) an elementary and popular interest 
by translating them into plain, everyday 
English. 

[196] 



Field Key 



Key 

PODICIPIDJE (The Rump-footed Family). 

Pied-billed Grebe (Little Dipper — Fish Duck). Migrant, 
and occasional winter visitor. Bristly frontal 
feathers. Upper parts, brown. Chin and throat, 
black. Lower breast, white. When swimming, 
moves as if walking in the water. 13 inches. 

URINATORID^i (The Family of Divers). 

Loon. Rare winter visitor. Largest diver, and there- 
fore most easily recognizable from size, which is that 
of an average domestic goose. Back, black, spotted 
with white. Breast, white. Will swim as far as 
200 yards under water at a stretch, remaining down 
as long as a minute and a half. 32 inches. 

LXRIDJE (The Family of Sea Birds). 

Common Tern (Wilson's Tern). Back and wings, light 
bluish-gray. Balance, white, with black crown. 
The "sea-bird" which most frequently finds its 
way up inland streams. 14 inches. 

ANATID.ffi (The Family of Ducks). 

Mallard Duck. Migrant, and occasional winter visitor. 

Largest Duck. "Deep-water" bird. Back, brown. 

Under parts, pale, dusky gray. 24 inches. 

Wood Duck. Rare resident. Green and purple crest. 

Other colorings varied; some iridescent. Breast, 

white. 18 inches. 

Blue-winged Teal. Common migrant. Occasional 

winter visitor. Dull lead color about neck and head. 

Blue patch on wing. 16 inches. 

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A Book on Birds 



ANATIDJS (The Family of Ducks).— Continued. 

Red-head Duck. Migrant. Rare winter visitor. Red 
head. Black collar. White breast. 22 inches. 

Canada Goose. Likely to be seen only in flight, and then 
in this formation > . Black head and neck, with 
white "cravat." Dark back. Breast, gray of a 
varying tinge, making feathers appear like scales. 

21 inches. 

AKDEIDM (The Family of Herons). 

American Bittern. Rare. Faded brown and black. 

24 inches. 

Great Blue Heron ("Big Crane"). Body, dull blue. 

Neck, white. Legs and neck, each about 16 inches 

long. Total height nearly four feet. 

Green Heron ("Fly-up-the-Creek"). Brown and black, 

with black crest. 18 inches. 

Black-crowned Night Heron. Black crest, out of which 

issue three long, white, flowing, filamentous feathers. 

26 inches. 

RALLID^ (The Family of Rails). 

Clapper Rail (Shore "Mud-hen"). Above, pale olive. 

Wings and tail, grayish-brown. Breast, buff. 

Chin, white. 14 inches. 

American Coot (Inland "Mud-hen"). Head, black. 

Rest, bluish slate-color. 15 inches. 

SCOLOPAdDJS (The Snipe-like Family). 

Spotted Sandpiper ("Tilt-up"). Long bill and legs. 
Abbreviated tail that bobs continually when he 
alights. Smooth, sleek plumage. Spotted head 
and cheeks. White breast. 7£ inches. 

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Field Key 



SCOLOPACDXE (The Snipe-like Family).— Continued. 

Bartramian Sandpiper (Field Plover). Speckled brown 
all over, except lower breast, brownish-gray. Dis- 
tinctly recognizable from his shrill whistle in couplets, 
dropping from upper air, day or night. 12£ inches. 

American Woodcock. Black, gray, russet, above. Brown- 
ish-red below. Body, stout and heavy, with short 
neck and long bill. 10 inches. 

CHARADRIHXE (The Family of Cleft-Dwellers). 

Killdeer. Upper parts brown. Under parts, pearl- 
white, except black band across chest. Long, 
pointed wings with a crook in them in flight. 

10 inches. 
TETRAONIDJS (The Pheasant Family). 

Ruffed Grouse (Partridge). Black, brown, white; with 
big neck-ruff of black. Crested. 18 inches. 

Quail ("Bob White"). Speckled reddish-brown, varied 
with white. Conspicuous throat patch; white in 
male, buff in female. Clear, loud, distinct whistle, 
deliberately given in a short series, one note at a 
time, with accent on the last, 10 inches. 

COLUMBID.se (The Family of Doves). 

Mourning Dove (Turtle Dove). Blue-gray and olive- 
brown. Smooth, swift, noiseless flight. 13 inches. 

CATHARTID.E (The Family of Cleansers). 

Turkey Buzzard. Entire plumage black, marked with 
dull brown. Wings pointed at ends. The big bird 
most frequently seen of those that float aloft with 
motionless, wide-spread wings. 30 inches. 

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A Book on Birds 



FALCONID^E (The Hooked-claw Family). 

Sharp-shinned Hawk. Mottled gray breast. Red eyes. 

14 inches. 

Cooper's Hawk. Grayish-white, brown-mottled breast; 
back and tail very dark. 20 inches. 

Red-tailed Hawk. Brown. Short, square tail, tipped 
with white. Under parts, white. Wings rounded 
at ends. The next most frequent motionless 
"high-sailer." 24 inches. 

American Sparrow Hawk. Black and brown striped, 
above. Light buff, below. Flat head. Thick-set 
neck. Shoulders humped in flight. 12 inches. 

American Osprey (Fish Hawk). White, below. Brown, 
above. 25 inches. 

STRIGID^E (The Family of Creakers). 

American Barn Owl. Ashen face, heart-shaped. "The 
Monkey-faced Owl." 16 inches. 

BUBONDXE) (The Family of Horned Owls). 

Snowy Owl. Rare. Largest of the Owls. Handsome 
white plumage, flecked with brown. 24 inches. 

American Long-eared Owl. Round face, brown-cheeked; 
ears rising up from forehead like plumes. 15 inches. 

Screech Owl. Red and gray. Eye-brows and ears 
forming a V on face. 10 inches. 

Barred Owl. Ashen-brown all over, with narrow, trans- 
verse bands of white. 20 inches. 

Great-horned Owl. Large, and wisest-looking. Mixed 
black, brown, gray and white. "Horns" more like 
ears, because at sides of forehead; also, very con- 
spicuous. 22 inches. 

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Field Key 



CUCULID^ (The Cuckoo Family). 

Yellow-billed Cuckoo ("Rain Bird"). Above, grayish- 
olive; below, white. Tail-feathers tipped with 
big white spots, some an inch or more long. 12 inches. 
Black-billed Cuckoo. Very like above in voice, markings 
and size; but bill all black; and white tips of tail- 
feathers very small. 12 inches. 

ALCEDINID^ (The Family of "Halcyon Birds" of the 

Winter Sea). 

Belted Kingfisher. Above, steel-blue; below, white 

with dark band across chest. "Pompadour" crest. 

Long, thick neck. Short tail. 13 inches. 

PICIDM (The Family of Painted Birds). 

Downy Woodpecker. Transverse white bars on dark 
wings. Short tail. Small red spot on nape of neck. 

6 inches. 

Hairy Woodpecker. Markings very like Downy; but 
tail much longer. 9 inches. 

Red-headed Woodpecker. Bright crimson head; rest, 
sharply-contrasted black and white. 9 inches. 

Flicker. Under surface of wings yellow. Wave-like 
flight. Dark crescent patch on breast. Scarlet 
at nape of neck. 12 inches. 

CAPRIMULGID^) (The Family of Milkers of Goats). 

Night-hawk. Thin, wide mouth. Grayish-brown and 
black. Conspicuous white spot on wing that looks 
like a hole in flight. 10 inches. 

Whip-poor-will. Very like above; but reddish-brown 
and black, and no spot on wing. 10 inches. 



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A Book on Birds 



MICROPODID^ (The Small-footed Family). 

Chimney Swift. Ashen-brown and black. Tail short, 
with spines. Pearl-gray chest. 5£ inches. 

TROCHILID^) (The Family of Little Birds). 

Ruby-throated Humming Bird. Green, above. White, 
below. Ruby-red gorget. 3 inches. 

TYRANNIDJE (The Tyrant Family). 

Kingbird. White, below. Blackish, above. Small 
crest showing a red spot. Agitated flight. Piercing 
notes. 8i inches. 

Crested Flycatcher. Dull olive and brown, with light 
yellow breast. Pinkish-brown under tail. Fine 
top-knot. 8£ inches. 

Phoebe. Olive-brown, above. Yellowish-white, below. 
Repeats name continually. Sharp eye. Small 
crest. 7 inches. 

Wood Pewee. Olive-brown, above. Yellowish, below. 
Two pale-white wing-bars. Wings much longer 
than tail. 6 inches. 

Acadian Flycatcher. Dark olive, above. Conspicuous 
white wing-bars. Throat and belly, yellow-white. 

6 inches. 

Least Flycatcher. Very like last, but noticeably smaller. 

5 inches. 

CORVID^) (The Family of Ravens or Crows). 

Blue Jay. Pale blue. Conspicuously crested. White 
and black markings. Tail richly tipped with white. 
Loud, harsh cry. "A reprobate." 12 inches. 

American Crow. Black, with violet iridescence. 

19 inches. 



[202] 



Field Key 



ICTERID^ (The Family of Jaundice-Healers). 

Bobolink. Glistening black and white, with buff cap, 
well back toward nape of neck. 7 inches. 

Cowbird. Rusty, iridescent black. Grayish head. 
Metallic luster all over. 8 inches. 

Red-winged Blackbird. Black, with bright scarlet spot 
on shoulders, often edged with yellow or white. 

9h inches. 

Meadow Lark. Upper parts, black and brown. Throat 
and breast yellow. Black crescent on chest. Outer 
tail-feathers white. Very rapid wing motion. 

10£ inches. 

Orchard Oriole. Dull, faded red and black. 7 inches. 

Baltimore Oriole ("Hang-nest"). Brilliant orange and 
black. 8£ inches. 

Purple Grackle. Common Crow Blackbird. 12 inches. 

FRINGHLH)^) (The Family of Sparrows and Finches). 

(Many species of Sparrows will at first appear exactly alike to a 
beginner, and the special effort here made is to give only the most dif- 
ferentiating marks in each case.) 

Song Sparrow. Gray and brown. Well-spotted breast, 
with blotch in center. 6£ inches. 

Tree Sparrow. In winter and early spring only. White 
bar on wing. Brown back, streaked with black, like 
scales. Breast, grayish-white with one indistinct 
spot in center. Brown of head, not a well-defined 
spot on crown like the Chippy's, but covering 
entire poll, and running even below eyes. Outer 
tail-feather, dull whitish. 6 inches. 

Field Sparrow. Reddish bill. Bright, rufous brown 
back. Very light buff breast. Sweet, even, plaintive 
song. 5i inches. 

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A Book on Birds 



FRINGILLID^ (The Family of Sparrows and Finches).— 
Continued. 

Chipping Sparrow. Well-defined solid brown cap on 
crown. No "ring" in his notes. 5§ inches. 

White-throated Sparrow. Dark brown stripes on head. 
Clear white patch at throat. 7 inches. 

White-crowned Sparrow. In winter only. White crown, 
with rich black stripes. No throat patch. 7 inches. 

Vesper Sparrow (Grass Finch). The sparrow that shows 
white tail-feathers flying. 6 hiches. 

Grasshopper (or Yellow-winged) Sparrow. Sings exactly 
like grasshopper. Crown, blackish. Bend of wing, 
bright yellow. 5 inches. 

Fox Sparrow. Back, dull slate-color changing at rump 
to cinnamon-brown. Richly spotted breast. Largest 
sparrow. 7\ inches. 

English Sparrow. Brown and black, above. Chin and 
throat, black. Under parts, ashen-gray. 6| inches. 

Savannah Sparrow. Crown shows broad stripe of yellow- 
gray. 5 inches. 

Swamp Sparrow. Back broadly streaked with black. 

6£ inches. 

Snowbird (Slate-colored Junco). Blackish-gray. Outer 
tail-feathers, glistening white. Flesh-colored beak. 

6 inches. 

Snow Bunting (White Snowbird). Beautiful glistening 
white plumage, flecked and streaked with rich brown. 
A most distinctive species, but rare. 7 inches. 

Purple Finch: Dull drab and purplish-gray. Crown, 
ruffled purple. Rare migrant. 6| inches. 

American Goldfinch (Salad, or Thistle, bird). Yellow, 
with black cap, wings and tail. 5 inches. 

[204] 



Field Key 



FRINGILLIDiE (The Family of Sparrows and Finches). — 
Continued. 

Indigo Bunting. Iridescent indigo all over, but with 
black markings. Sings canary's song as if hurriedly. 

5£ inches. 
Cardinal (Virginia Red-bird). Pale cardinal. "Dunce- 
cap" crest. Aspirated whistle. 9 inches. 
Towhee (Ground-Robin — Chewink). Brick-red and black, 
with white markings. Whistles his name. 8| inches. 
Rose-breasted Grosbeak. Black and white, with bright 
rose running down from throat to breast. 

8 inches. 
TANAGRID^ (The Family of Tanagers). 

Scarlet Tanager. Brilliant carmine body, with jet-black 
wings. Female, lemon-yellow. 7£ inches. 

HIRUNDINID^ (The Family of Swallows). 

(The distinctive mark of this family is their wonderful power of flight* 
All of them spend most of their time by day on the wing.) 

Purple Martin. Largest swallow. Glossy blue-black 
all over. Tail notched, not forked; wings when 
closed extend beyond it. 8 inches. 

White-bellied Swallow (Tree Swallow). Pure white below, 
from chin to tail; dark, metallic green above. 

6 inches. 

Barn Swallow. Deeply-forked tail. Steel-blue back. 
Chestnut breast. 6| inches. 

Bank Swallow. White breast, banded with brown. 
Brown back. 5 inches. 

AMPELID^E (The Family of Vine-Haunters). 

Cedar Waxwing (Cedar Bird). Flattened crest. Body, 
light, dull drab and purplish-brown. Breast and edge 
of tail, yellow. 7\ inches. 

[205] 



A Book on Birds 



LANIID^ (The Butcher Family). 

Loggerhead Shrike (Butcher Bird). Migrant. Slate- 
colored, above. White, below. Wings and tail, 
black. 9 inches. 

VIREONID^ (The Family of Vireos). 

Red-eyed Vireo. Largest Vireo. Dull olive, above. 

Pearl, below. Eyes, ruby-red when sun strikes them. 

6| inches. 
White-eyed Vireo. Plumage very similar to above, but 

eyes white. 5| inches. 

Warbling Vireo. Plumage very similar to above, but eyes 

black. 5 inches. 

Yellow-throated Vireo. Colored like "Chat," but much 

smaller. 5£ inches. 

MNIOTILTID^ (The Family of Moss-Pullers). 

(Most members of tbia family — the Wood Warblers — are merely spring 
and fall migrants in our latitude, Nearly all the smaller ones have dark 
brown eyes and are trim of body; and their most distinguishing family 
mark while with us is their voice in the trees, day or night; which as a 
rule is nothing more than a sharp little squeak.) 

Black-throated Green Warbler. Cheeks and sides of neck, 
rich yellow. Chin and throat, black. Outer tail- 
feathers, white. 5 inches. 

Black and White Warbler (Creeper). Black and white 
all over. 5| inches. 

Blue-winged Yellow Warbler. Yellow, with blue-gray 
wings with two white bars. 5 inches. 

Parula Warbler. Very small. Orange and yellow on 
upper breast, with faint tinges of same over blue- 
gray back. Two white wing-bars. Greenish-yellow 
patch on back. 3| inches. 

[206] 



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Field Key 



MNIOTILTIDiE (The Family of Moss-Pullers).— Continued. 

Yellow Warbler. Yellow all over with little flecks of 
reddish-brown upon breast. 5| inches. 

Black-throated Blue Warbler. Black throat. White 
breast. Dull blue back. White -patch on dark 
wings. 5 1 inches. 

Myrtle Warbler. Yellow on crown. Also on rump and 
sides of breast. Balance, blue, brown and white. 

6 inches. 

Magnolia Warbler. Crown gray and white. Yellow on 
rump, throat and breast. h\ inches. 

Chestnut-sided Warbler. Chestnut stripe along breast, 
just below edge of wings. Crown, yellow. 5 inches. 

Palm Warbler. Chestnut-red spot on crown. Back, 
olive or grayish-brown. Breast, yellow, flecked with 
brown. 5^ inches. 

Kentucky Warbler. Yellow, with black patch on face, 
along eye, but entirely below it. 5§ inches. 

Hooded Warbler. Yellow and olive with pronounced 
hood of deep black, which leaves eyes free. 5£ inches. 

Maryland Yellow-throat. Yellow and olive, with band 
of black extended across forehead and eyes, like a 
blindfold, or "leather spectacles." 5 inches. 

Worm-eating Warbler. Brown and buff-striped crown, 
something like that of White-throated Sparrow. 
Back, drab; breast, cream. 5| inches. 

Nashville Warbler. Upper parts olive-green. Sides of 
head, gray. Breast and edges of wings, yellow. 

4£ inches. 

Golden-crowned Thrush (Oven Bird). Slender and grace- 
ful. Mottled breast and other markings like Wood 
Thrush, with stripe of brownish-yellow through 
crown. 6 inches. 

[207] 



A Book on Birds 



MNIOTILTID-dB (The Family of Moss-Pullers).— Continued. 
Yellow-breasted Chat. Olive, above; bright yellow, below. 

7£ inches. 

American Redstart. Orange and black. 5| inches. 

Blackburnian Warbler. Orange spot on top of head. 

Chest, orange. Outer tail-feathers and wing-patch, 

white. 5£ inches. 

TROGLODYTIDJ3 (The Family of Cave, or Hole, Dwellers). 
Catbird. Deep, smooth gray, with black markings. 

Brown under tail. 9 inches. 

Brown Thrasher. Rusty brown. Very long tail and 

beak. Mottled breast. Golden-eyed. 11 inches. 
Carolina Wren. Largest Wren. Reddish-brown. 

Very long, curved bill. 6 inches. 

House Wren. Grayish-brown speckled. 4| inches. 

Winter Wren. Speckled reddish-brown and black. 

4 inches. 

CERTHIID-® (The Family of Creepers). 

Brown Creeper. Dull faded brown and gray. Whitish, 
below. Long bill and tail. b\ inches. 

PARIM) (The Titmouse Family). 

White-breasted Nuthatch (Sapsucker). Gray, above. 
White, below. Black crown. Short tail. 6 inches. 

Tufted Titmouse. Gray, above. White, below. Con- 
spicuous crest. 7 inches. 

Chickadee (Black-cap Titmouse). Ashen-brown. Top 
of head, chin, and throat, black. 5 inches. 



[208] 



Field Key 



SYLVHD.® (The Family of Forest Singers). 

Golden-crowned Kinglet. Short, fat, trim. Dark green, 
above. Whitish, below. Fine spot of gold on crown. 

4 inches. 

Rvhy-crowned Kinglet. Like above, but spot on crown 

bright carmine. 4 inches. 

TURDID.® (The Thrush, or Fieldfare Family). 

Wood Thrush. Brown. Pure white breast with rich 

brown blotches. 8 inches. 

Hermit Thrush. Brown of tail very different from back. 

Marks on breast in faint streaks. 7 inches. 

American Robin. Red breast. Gray and black, above. 

10 inches. 
Bluebird. Bright blue. Upper breast, dull red. 

6 \ inches. 
Veery (Wilson's Thrush). Marked like first-named 
Thrush, but no contrast between brown of tail and 
back, which is of a dull cinnamon color. Slender and 
shy. Center of throat, belly and sides, white. 
Breast spotted. 7 inches. 



[209] 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



JAN 24 1912 



